


A Hopeless Place

by ErinOutlander, wtfrasers



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Alternate Universe - Outlander Fusion, Canon LGBTQ Male Character, F/F, F/M, Gen, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25872997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinOutlander/pseuds/ErinOutlander, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfrasers/pseuds/wtfrasers
Summary: A Hopeless Place is an Alternate Universe Outlander fanfic set in Boston 1950, where Medical student Claire Randall has been assigned an internship at Danvers State Hospital for her Mental Health rotation. This fic explores LGBT themes, including the history of Conversion Therapy.Romance / Psychological Thriller / Historical FictionA very HUGE thanks topreciouslittleingenueandJeSuisPrestfor being the best betas and our #1 fans!
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp & Geillis Duncan, Claire Beauchamp & Lord John Grey, Claire Beauchamp & Original Character(s), Claire Beauchamp/Frank Randall, Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser, Claire Beauchamp/Original Character(s), Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey, Joe Abernathy & Other(s), Lord John Grey/Hector, Lord John Grey/Percy Wainwright
Comments: 170
Kudos: 83





	1. The Vision of Saint Benedict

[ ](https://ibb.co/wdnBkYJ)

_Boston, 1950_

The moment the elderly nun stepped off the elevator, leaving Joseph Abernathy and I alone at last, I breathed a sigh of relief. The doors closed behind her and I turned to Joe as the elevator started to rise once more.

“Of _all_ the places for the Dean to send us, Joe, why did it have to be here?”

He let out a huff, “Other than it being a requirement, you mean?” His large hand came to rest reassuringly on my shoulder, “Don’t worry, Lady Jane, these six months will fly by, you’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right.” Danvers State Hospital was not a pretty place to be, but our fourth-year internships were compulsory and we would have to do our rotation in the ward at some point anyway. “This place gives me the creeps.”

A ghostly chill caressed me as we stepped out of the elevator. The ward itself was in the far, shadow-covered wing of the hospital, and half in the basement, at that, but the eerie silence was what chilled me the most. I suppose I half expected there to be manic laughter or screaming of some kind – even those might not have struck me as creepily as the complete silence did. I had lived in dirt before, wiped sweat from my brow to learn that I was covered with the blood of a stranger, and found my way through dark ruins guided only by blood-curdling screams, but the white sterile walls of this bright but dreary prison frightened me more. The squeaking of our shoes on the pastel-green linoleum floor broke the silence as we followed the signs in the direction of the nurses’ station.

“Claire!” A smiling strawberry-blonde nurse appeared in a doorway, and I immediately felt my tension ease up a little.

“A familiar face, at last! How are you, Geillis?” Joe smiled, and she shook his hand, greeting him fondly before turning and drawing me into a familiar hug.

“God, Claire, it feels like it’s been a year since I’ve seen ye last!” 

My best friend’s Scottish lilt brought an instinctual smile to my face. “I suppose you’re going to tell me medical school was a bad idea just for keeping us apart?”

“I would _never_ , Doctor Randall!” Geillis sassed, feigning hurt by clutching her fist to her chest, and making me laugh.

Geillis and I had met years before, as two of the youngest combat nurses at our post during The Great War, and remained friends throughout. After the war ended, we both moved to the United States to work in the military hospitals, but I had always dreamed of becoming a doctor. So, much to Geillie’s overly-dramatic dismay, I left nursing to enter medical school.

“I _have_ missed you.”

“Oh aye, I should hope so.” Geillis grinned, looping her arm through mine as we walked the rest of the way to the nurses’ station. “First thing’s first; you two need these.” She handed Joe and I each a laminated ID card to pin to our pockets. “And now we can begin the _Grand Tour_.” She gestured widely.

Feeling slightly more at ease, we followed Geillis down the corridor. We passed several communal areas along the way; a dining area, a lounge with a TV set bolted to the wall, and what appeared to be a sunroom doubling as a rec room. Several patients occupied the rec room; most of them were seated at various tables covered with half-completed puzzles and scattered monopoly pieces, but there was another who – much to my shock – lay spread out on the floor, with his hand shoved down the front of his pants. _Was he-_ I hurriedly averted my gaze, feeling the blush begin to creep its way onto my cheeks.

A flash of copper hair drew my attention towards the far end of the room where two patients sat near the window, one on either side of a chess set. The redhead’s curls fell disheveled around her face, catching the bright afternoon sun. Neither she nor the young man opposite her seemed to actually be _playing_ chess, though. They merely stared out the window with identical blank expressions on their faces.

“Come on,” Geillis urged, tugging on my arm. “You need to meet Doc!”

‘Doc’ was a bit of a confusing name, I discovered. The short, older man wore old scrubs, but they were covered by a handmade waistcoat which was spackled with various patches and patterns. His toad-like features were only exaggerated by his voice, which came out in a thick French-accented croak. He took my hand and bowed low, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Madonna.”

“My name is Claire,” I corrected him, trying to sound as polite as possible to mask my confusion, but he just smiled a toothy grin.

“Ah, but you see, you have a halo of blue surrounding you – an aura, if you will – very much like the virgin Madonna; like my own.” His beady eyes stared into mine and I had to blink and look away for fear he would see right into my soul. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, too, Doc.”

“Oi!” Geillie chirped, calling our attention from the mock “Doc” to a patient attempting to _snort_ the contents of an ashtray. This abrupt distraction was a truly welcomed segue from my hatred of small talk to the rest of the tour.

Geillis led us down the hallway towards the patients’ bedrooms. She showed us the various interview rooms, the staff break-room, the pill dispensary, and the therapy rooms. By the end of the tour, my heart was in my throat. Working here would be a lot tougher than I had even imagined. Geillis had always seemed to fly a little over the cuckoo’s nest herself, but how the bloody fuck was _I_ not expected to lose my marbles here?

* * *

“I don’t know, Frank, it’s just so _cold_ and _creepy_.” The bedroom of our Boston brownstone was the exact opposite. I sighed as I got into bed beside my husband. Frank’s eyes danced across the pages of whichever dusty old history book he had decided to read that night. 

“Mhmm,” he mumbled, closing the book finally and placing it on his nightstand, turning off his lamp.

“I just _can’t_ imagine having to stay there for the full six months.” I flicked off the lamp on my own nightstand and moved myself further down the bed. Frank rolled closer; his arm slung across my middle as he pressed himself against me. “I mean, I know Geillis will be there, but I can’t be around her _all_ the time.”

“Mhmm,” Frank hummed again. His hand had found its way beneath my pyjama shirt and had begun to move in slow circles across my stomach.

I rolled over to face him, “You should have _seen_ this place, Frank. The way those poor people just _stared_ out the window. One guy, I don’t know if he’s a patient or not… Oh, and there was even one who just lay there with his _hand_ down his _pants_.”

“Oh, really?” I could sense Frank smirk, even in the dark. His hand had begun to wander again, dipping into the waistband of my pyjama pants, “Like this?”

“And, did I tell you? Joe won’t even be there with me. He has to do his rounds in the paediatric side.”

“Joe.” Frank’s hand stopped. Slowly, he withdrew his touch and exhaled a sigh of frustration.

“God, I don’t even want to _imagine_ what it’s like for the children…”

I turned to look at my husband; his face was silhouetted against the faint glow of silver seeping through the curtains. He simply sighed, rolled over, and fell asleep.

* * *

_Dr. R.F.Q. Saint-Germain_

God, even the way his name filled the plaque on the door was intimidating. Joe and I stood side-by-side outside his room, waiting to be let in. Geillis had met us at the elevator that morning and led us through the winding corridors to the doctors’ offices, explaining along the way that Dr. Saint-Germain was ‘the one in charge around here.’ _He’s the mastermind behind the treatments,_ she had told us, _he developed all the medications._ We would have to report directly to him, it seemed. 

The door opened quite suddenly, and I found myself face-to-face with the doctor himself. He stared at me with eyes the color of coal, unblinking, for what seemed like forever. Finally, he stepped back so we could enter his office. 

By the time we walked out into the corridor again my head was spinning. There was _so much_ I hadn’t expected to hear; I had known that most of the patients in this ward were undergoing homosexual conversion therapy, but the methods Dr. Saint-Germain described sounded _quite_ extreme. Psychoanalysis and Aversion Therapy - involving either nausea-inducing medications or, much to my horror, electric shocks - were just the tip of the iceberg. And he expected _me_ to assist him! I had hurt patients for their own good before: the realignment of a fractured nose, the swift relocation of a shoulder removed from its joint, the all encompassing dissolution that accompanies an impromptu amputation when mind and body have reached their limit before blacking out; but making people ill in order to “cure” the condition of their sexuality was not a “Do No Harm” exception in my book.

I shivered at the thought; Joe noticed, and gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze. “It’ll be ok, LJ.” I didn’t know whether he said it more for my benefit or his own as he turned and grudgingly made his own way toward the paediatric wing to start his rounds. _Deep breaths, Beauchamp_ , I told myself firmly. I just had to get on with it; there was no other option. 

Geillis wasn’t at the nurses’ station when I got there, so I walked down the hallway in search of her. As I made my way through the ward, however, I felt myself being pulled towards the rec room. The late-morning sun still bathed the room in a faint amber glow; the rays of light stretched from the window and swam around my feet as I stepped through the door. 

A quiet static came from my left where one of the patients was fiddling with the knobs on a radio. The noise set my teeth on edge, so I stepped further into the room, away from the noise. I instinctively averted my gaze as I walked past the man with his hand _still_ in his pants, instead heading towards the game tables. 

A woman with greasy, dark hair sat hunched over a half-complete jigsaw puzzle at one of the tables.

“Hello,” I greeted her tentatively, “my name is Claire Randall. What’s your name?”

She looked up from her puzzle and smiled faintly, her big green eyes searched mine. I wouldn’t have thought she belonged in this ward at all had she not, quite suddenly, begun screaming at the top of her lungs. “Jesus H Roosevelt CHRIST!” I didn’t know whether to cover my ears or my mouth first as two nuns came running in; one held the woman still while the other lifted her sleeve and plunged the needle of a large syringe into her arm. She shivered, stopped screaming, and went slack in the nun’s arms.

“Don’t worry, child,” the nun with the needle turned to me, “it’s just Barbara.” 

I nodded and tried to shake the shocked expression from my face. ' _Just Barbara_ ,' I swallowed thickly, _definitely belongs here_. The other patients in the room were apparently quite used to Barbara’s antics because not one of them seemed to have moved at all. I looked around at them, scanning the room for someone a little more approachable. 

The woman with the red hair and the petite young man sat at the window again. Both had their faces turned towards the sun, and neither seemed to actually be playing chess. There was something quite serene about this version of _The Vision of Saint Benedict_. Something about the woman intrigued me, but before I could move towards them Geillie’s voice piped up from behind me.

“ _There_ ye are, Claire! I’ve been looking for ye _everywhere_.” 

“Oh, uh, sorry. I went looking for you and ended up here, instead. I thought I’d meet some of the patients before the official meetings.”

Geillis laughed, “Well, yer no’ going to be having many enlightening conversations wi’ this lot. Come on, I’ll fetch ye the files ye'll be needing.”

* * *

_Deep breaths,_ I told myself for the second time that day. I clutched the patient file tight as I walked into the interview room, closing the door behind me. It took me a second to realize who I was looking at when I turned around; away from the sun-lit window her hair wasn’t as vividly copper, but the thick, long curls were unmistakable. 

“Miss.. um..” I checked the name on her file as I rounded the table and sat down. “Siobhan?”

She remained still, stiff in her seat and eyes cast downwards. The only movement I could see came from her right hand; two fingers tapped out an anxious rhythm against her thigh. At the base of her wrist, mostly hidden by the sleeve of her blouse, but vibrant against the pallor of her skin, was what appeared to be a floral tattoo.

“Siobhan?” I tried again, flipping briefly through her file, trying not to let my own nerves show. The last thing I needed was to seem vulnerable in front of a patient I knew nothing about.

“That’s no’ my name.” Her voice was quiet, raspy from lack of use. I detected the same Scottish burr that I knew well from my years of friendship with Geillis.

“I’m sorry…” I flipped back to the front page of the file. No, it definitely said _Siobhan_. “What should I call you?”

She looked up at me then, as though she hadn’t expected anyone to actually hear her. Navy? No, indigo. Her eyes were a remarkable blue darkened by tremendous heartache and the shadows that lived behind them. Her pupils were widely dilated; the silhouette of a setting sun behind her amber lashes. 

“Jamie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited to add: We know the reveal at the end is intriguing and may be confusing to some, so we just wanted to clarify that this is not a trans!Jamie story. This is a genderswapped!Jamie where a female with the unisex nickname Jamie has all your favorite JAMMF characteristics but provides a wlw take on the J&C dynamic duo we all love.


	2. Do No Harm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I felt my breath rattle through me with a shiver as my eyes fell on the young captain and his copper-haired companion on the opposite end of the circle. They always seemed so serene together, so at peace. I couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to hurt them - even in the name of science."
> 
> Claire is faced with the awful reality of the treatments she will need to carry out, and learns some more about her patients.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We just wanted to clarify again that this is not a trans!Jamie story. This is a CisFemale!Jamie She just has a unisex nickname (Jamie). She has all your favorite JAMMF characteristics but provides a wlw take on the J/C dynamic duo we all love.

[ ](https://ibb.co/LrrHXjw)

I let out an audible sigh, dumping the last of the patient files onto the counter of the dispensary with a thud that made Geillis jump. The pills, which she had been carefully counting and doling out, all tumbled into one of the little paper cups. 

“Och, ye’ve made me lose count, Claire.” She scowled. 

“I’m sorry. Shall I help?” I walked around to her side of the counter. 

Geillis just shook her head. “No, ye look exhausted. Doc can help me.”

“You require assistance, _mademoiselle_?” Hearing his name, the beady-eyed little man had poked his head around the doorframe. I still couldn’t tell whether he was a patient or a doctor, but either way he seemed to be working in the dispensary. Geillis handed him the overflowing cup of pills and stepped away for him to take over. 

“How have the interviews been going, then?” Geillis pulled up a stool and motioned for me to sit down. I obliged, thanking her with a tired smile. The ward was large, and I’d had to walk back and forth collecting patients for their interviews all morning.

“Rather well, so far, but I’ve not seen all of them yet, so I’ll have to continue tomorrow.” I ran my hands through my hair; I had neatly pinned it back that morning, but my unruly curls had escaped at some point over the course of the morning. 

Somewhere in the ward a familiar screech rang out, startling me.

“Sounds like it’s _Barb O’ Clock_.” Geillis trilled, laughing to herself as she turned back towards Doc, “How far are ye with those pills?”

A pair of nuns scampered past the dispensary in the direction of the high-pitched screaming, and moments later the ward fell into silence once more. The scream seemed to have alerted the rest of the patients, because they all slowly began to appear from various rooms and adjoining corridors. 

“Here, pour this, would ye?” Geillis handed me a stack of cups and a pitcher of water. “Who do ye still need tae meet wi’, then?” 

I complied, pouring the water and placing each cup on a tray in front of the dispensary hatch. “Well, that young man, for one. The one who sits at the chessboard every day.”

“Here ye go, Mr. Adams,” Geillis passed one of the little paper cups through the hatch, to a scrawny-looking old man who glared back at her before looking thoughtfully at me, “Oh aye, that’ll be young Captain Grey - John, his name is. A braw lad, although- Thank you, Jerry-” she took the cup back from the man then added, with a whisper, “between you and me, he seems a bit _preoccupied_ _with the youngins_ , if ye ken my meaning.” 

“Really? He seems barely older than a child himself, quite honestly. Did you call him ‘ _Captain_ ’ Grey?” I glanced out into the hall, scanned the queueing patients, and finally spotted the young man in question. He stood near the back of the line, his hands behind his back in true military poise; I was suddenly struck by memories of all the young men I had treated in the field, none of whom were anywhere _near_ being captains.

“He’s near twenty now, and aye, he made Captain during the war.” She continued to hand small paper cups of pills and water through the hatch. “I heard he was quite the bonnie wee soldier.” A chuckle escaped me as I realized that at 10 years his senior, young Captain Grey had out ranked me. I could only assume his family name would have afforded him such an early commission. I nearly choked, forced to swallow that short-lived laugh, remembering the many field deaths that also led young men and women to premature promotion in order to replace their wounded leadership. How the hell did he end up _here_?

My eyes drifted from the young captain as the queue moved forward and I caught a glimpse of copper hair. Siobhan was taller than John, but then again, John was not very tall. “They seem to be quite close.” 

Geillis followed the direction of my gaze as she doled out the midday medications, “Weel, they’ve been paired up for therapy for quite a while. Oi! Give that back!” She nearly dove across the counter as one of the patients swiped a cup of pills without her seeing.

“I interviewed her this morning. Do you know much about her?” I picked up Geillis’ starched white nurse’s cap, which had fallen off as she leapt, and handed it back to her. Through the hatch I could see Siobhan - _Jamie_ \- and John drawing nearer to the front of the line. 

She straightened her cap and eyed me suspiciously. “Why are ye asking _me_? Ye’ve seen her file yerself, have ye no?”

I watched as the compulsive masturbator stepped forward, his only unoccupied hand fumbling to hold both water and pill cups. “Only a brief medical history but not much of her social and familial history. Has she been here long?”

“Off ye pop now, Arthur!” Geillis rolled her eyes and shooed the man out of the way, turning to me and picking up the next pill cup. “Aye, a year or so.”

 _A year?_ I could barely fathom being in the ward for longer than the six required months of my internship, so the idea of being the one locked up _and_ having to stay for that long broke my heart. “That’s a long time.” My mouth had gone dry. 

“Och, most of them ha’ been here longer than that.” 

“Was she always this quiet?”

“Siobhan Fraser? Och, no. Ye should ha’ seen her. Put up a real fight, that one did. Not so much as auld Mr. Adams; now _he_ was a challenging one. Dinna fash, Claire, nobody expects ye to _actually_ get through to any o’ them. That’s what the pills and treatments are for.”

“Right.” The quietly stoic, seemingly shy woman I had met with that morning had hardly seemed like a fighter, to me. She had seemed withdrawn, folded in on herself like a wilting flower. Perhaps that was why she and John sat at the window in the sun each day - the hope of finding _something_ to rejuvenate them. 

* * *

Group therapy later that day was chaotic to say the least. First, the seating arrangements were a fight - “as usual," I had been told - then everyone wanted to speak all at once, and then nobody wanted to talk at all. I looked around at them, trying hard not to think about what came _after_ group therapy. I didn’t want to imagine _any_ of them lying on a table with electrodes pressed to their temples. I felt my breath rattle through me with a shiver as my eyes fell on the young captain and his copper-haired companion on the opposite end of the circle. They always seemed so serene together, so at peace. I couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to hurt them - even in the name of science. 

* * *

Leading the first of the patients into the procedure room was a strange feeling. A coldness ran through me, starting deep in my chest and radiating through my limbs, settling like ice in my fingers and toes. Barbara was already mostly sedated, having been premedicated, but as we neared the bed she stopped complying with the nurses who ‘assisted’ her. And when the first electroconvulsive shocks were administered, I couldn’t help but look away. When it was over and they were leading her away, I could still see her muscles spasming slightly. Her green eyes stared right through me this time. 

Jamie was next. I avoided her eyes, feeling the coldness in my veins still tingling at my core. She only looked forward, chin up and back straight as she entered the brightly lit procedural room; she seemed to have prepared herself for what was to come. Her red curls fell softly on the bed, a lackluster halo around her head as it was cradled between paddles. She kept her eyelids tightly shut but they sprung open involuntarily with the first shock; a starburst of color accented by a pinpoint pupil. The leather straps holding her to the table strained with her convulsing muscles, and I felt a sob wrack through me, up and out into the world for all to hear. Dr. Rawlings glanced up at me curiously, the look in his eyes not of pity but of annoyance; I took his offer to leave before he had even finished giving it. 

Back out in the corridor I crumbled. _Jesus bloody Christ, Beauchamp,_ I chastised myself, _pull yourself together._ I stayed in the corridor until I knew her treatment was complete, finally concluding that my _overreaction_ was due purely to watching this woman, who I had seen only as passive and calm, be blindly electrocuted. But when I stepped back into the room, saw the nurses unstrapping her long limp form and hoisting her bodily from the procedure table to a gurney, I knew I had to do something.

* * *

Try as I might, the damn gas refused to light again. “Jesus H Roosevelt Christ!” I slammed the pan back on the stove with a _clang_ . I knew there was another lighter _somewhere_ in this cramped kitchen. 

“He didn’t listen of course. Just asked me if I’d ‘had the opportunity to examine’ some or other prospectus for the spring seminar.” Frank was rambling on about a grant proposal at the university where he worked. He reached up into the cabinet above my head and pulled out the spare lighter I had been searching for. “You know, you don’t have to cook.”

“But I’ve already prepared everything-” Frank had already gone off on another tangent about his day. I glanced at the ingredients laid out on the counter to my right and sighed. I wondered what they ate in the ward; all the hospital food I’d ever eaten had tasted like rubberized cardboard. I hoped Siobhan and John - and the others, _of course_ \- were being well fed. 

Siobhan. My mind kept coming back to her, somehow. She was only 5 years my junior but had lived a completely different life. My mind filled with images of her convulsing body, her jaw clenched tight as electricity pulsed through her; it made my stomach turn. Frank was right, I _didn’t_ have to cook. He would gladly settle for take-out.

Later that night, even with our empty Chinese takeaway cartons left out on the kitchen table, I settled into bed. Frank, who had evidently been waiting for me, closed his book and set it aside almost at once. I was exhausted; my mind swam with the emotions of the day, and I sought the comfort of sinking into sleep. That night, he wanted more.

Frank bore into me with the grunts of someone bringing the word of God to a foreign land; tentatively, ritually, unchanging in his long-taught ways. His hands were on me, hot against my skin, but somehow they felt softer than normal. His panting breath in my neck sent shivers through me, flashes of red and gold erupting behind my eyelids like dancing flames in sunlight. I lay unmoving, breathless, my hands gripping the sheets as my mind pieced together a distant recollection; a kaleidoscope of colors and textures not-yet-familiar. Silky auburn, shimmering copper, and a dark, glassy blue… _navy? No, indigo._

The realization hit me like a ton of bricks.

* * *

The next morning, as I walked the halls in search of various patients for interviews, I had almost forgotten about my late-night thoughts of Siobhan Fraser. That is, until I stepped into the rec room to find John. I should have known she would be there, sitting at the window across from John Grey, as she always was. 

I stood in the doorway for a moment and looked at her as though seeing her for the first time. I had noticed her brilliant red curls from our first encounter, of course, but I had not fully taken in her beauty in its entirety before. Her lips were pale pink, soft and plump, and her nose was perfectly formed as if by a sculptor. I traced the soft, subtle strength of her jawline with my eyes; the way it curved up to her ears, which stuck out _just a little_ . I was struck by the inexplicable urge to reach out and touch her at the crease where her earlobe folded into her neck, to see whether the skin there was as smooth as it looked. I shook myself, shocked that I had even _thought_ such a thing. Siobhan was beautiful, that much was certain; I was merely admiring natural beauty. _Right?_ I took a breath and walked towards the pair. Neither looked away from the window as I stopped in front of the chess table. 

“Good morning, Miss Fraser, Captain Grey.” I made an effort to sound chipper, but neither patient seemed to notice my presence at all. “How are we doing this morning?” Still, they didn’t even look in my direction. 

I glanced down at the chessboard, then at John, and at Siobhan. I reached out and took hold of one of the pieces, edging it a few squares forwards. Without warning, Siobhan’s hand floated from her lap and grasped my own, not firmly but with purpose, as I still held the chess piece. She moved my hand - and the piece - back to where it had been, paused, and then moved it forwards and sideways in an upside-down _L_ shape. Her hand lingered on mine for what felt like minutes. The warmth of her touch spread through me, and I hoped she couldn’t feel my quickening pulse. I stared at her hand, unable to look away, for I could feel her eyes on me. 

Her fingers were long and slender; I could feel slight calluses on her finger tips, and there was a faint white scar running along the length of her ring finger. I was just wondering what had caused it, when the young Captain cleared his throat.

“Be mindful, my dear. They’re watching us.” I wasn’t sure which of us he was talking to, but Siobhan drew her hand back instantly, clasping it with the other in her lap. I took my own hand back, and looked up at John. He smiled and stood from his seat. “Time for our interview, I presume?”

* * *

“Yes! Yes, you may, of course. Please be seated, Captain Grey.” I motioned toward the chair opposite my own, answering the question he hadn’t asked when he entered the office and stood at parade rest. 

“Right, so I think you’ve noticed me here recently. I’m Claire Randall, a medical intern. You can tell me as much or as little as you like. I’m here to learn about your experience and the influence of Dr. Saint-Germain’s treatments on patient rehabilitation.” He was quite charming, incredibly polite, and surprisingly forthcoming about his past. 

I learned from sweet John that his arm had been broken by enemy forces during the war and that, because he was positioned so far from the nearest field hospital, it went days before being properly set. An infection had landed him in hospital but it was the news of his boyfriend Hector’s death in battle that had triggered a psychotic break, earning him an all expense paid trip to Danvers State Hospital. Although I didn’t know him well, he seemed more _himself_ than any of the other patients I had interviewed. A quick shuffle through his file and into his medical records revealed that John’s dosing had been titrated down over time. He actually received a much smaller amount than the other patients and didn’t require ECT. In fact, his prescription mostly consisted of antipsychotics and therapy by that point.

As if reading the thoughts written across my furrowed brow, he cast his eyes down and sheepishly said, “My condition is not one of _complete_ abomination, madam.” I silently cursed my own eyes as they shot up from the notepad. Being that he was attracted to both women and men, John had been diagnosed with a “mild” case of homosexuality and per Dr. Saint-Germain’s most recent progress note, ‘has rehabilitated quite nicely and is on target for scheduled release.’ I was disgusted in myself for even aiding such a place. 

I looked down at my list of questions, cringing at the cold formality of it all. I didn’t _want_ to ask those questions. Finally I settled on one. “Do you think they work, John? The medications, that is."

He looked back at me, his lips pulled tightly to one side as he nibbled at the corner of his lip, gauging, computing, deciding if I were trustworthy. Whatever he saw when he looked at me must have convinced him of my standing, because his mouth relaxed into a soft, kind smile. He leaned forwards in his chair, resting his arms on the table between us. 

“In my opinion, madam, _anything_ can seem believable to a clouded mind. It’s easy to convince yourself that everything you’ve felt your _entire life_ was a lie the moment you are forcibly numbed to those feelings.” 

I nodded, finding it rather difficult all of a sudden to believe that this wise insight came from a man of merely twenty. His pale blue eyes were youthful, sweet almost, but I knew he had seen a lifetime’s worth of pain and heartache. And yet, somehow, he maintained a certain lightness about him. I thought about Siobhan, and how she, too, had seen pain. I could see it in her eyes, too, the way I could in John’s. But where John’s eyes showed his eternal optimism, Siobhan’s showed the opposite. I’d seen _de_ _fiance_ in them _,_ yes, _stubbornness_ even, but the look in her eyes, that first time I heard her speak, was a look of hopelessness. 

At the end of our allotted time, I closed John’s file and stood to escort him from our meeting, thanking him for being open and honest with me. 

“Jamie and I, we’ve had a rough time.” He turned and smiled once more as he stepped out into the hall. “You are impossible not to like.” 

I watched him leave, but I couldn’t help wondering what he really meant by that. Had I been too friendly towards him? I thought back to my medical school lessons on the boundaries we should never cross, particularly with mental health patients who were quite vulnerable and impressionable. Had I forgotten my place as a professional and had he- _Christ,_ was he saying _he_ liked me, or that Siobhan did? 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a HUGE thank you to [preciouslittleingenue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciouslittleingenue/pseuds/preciouslittleingenue) and [JeSuisPrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisPrest/pseuds/JeSuisPrest) for being the most amazing betas and for being so supportive as we write this story we both care so much about!  
> And another HUGE thank you to YOU, for reading it :) <3


	3. La Douleur Exquise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Life sprung into Jamie’s shadowed eyes as she threw her glorious head of red locks back and spluttered a laugh. I couldn’t help but laugh too; for a brief moment it felt as though we truly were friends in a diner, sharing laughs over milkshakes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La Douleur Exquise:  
> Direct translation "exquisite pain", conceptually refers to the feeling of wanting someone you can't be with, and knowing that you still want to be with them.

[ ](https://ibb.co/QdqR2K5)

_Fiery tendrils swirled like runaway leaves of autumn as she rose from her chair and started toward the office door. She had never frightened me during our one-on-one interviews, but this sudden movement was unlike her. Unlike any patient here for that matter._

_“Siobhan, our session hasn’t ended. Where are you going?” I called after her, setting my notepad aside and rising from my own seat._

_She stopped, released her grip from the doorknob then turned slowly to face me. Her freckled face was flushed, and inkwells of indigo, full to the brim with unshed tears, stared down at me. Her height was domineering, but I stood my ground._

_“You’ve progressed so much in our sessions. If you would like to leave you may be dismissed. If you would like to stay and speak to me, Siobhan...” I smiled at her coyly and returned to my armchair._

_She took two steps and met me face to face. If Medusa and Hephaestus had had a daughter, it was she who hovered over me, hands on the armrests at my sides, perfectly sculpted nose touching mine._

_I could not move._

“ **_Jamie_ ** ,” _she whispered with a rasp, breathing life to her name against my lips._

 _“Jamie,” I panted back, barely breathing, into her mouth. But she wouldn’t kiss me, she just hovered above me, almost suspended in animation. Her hair grazed my cheek as it floated between us, vibrant curls dancing along my collarbone like embers around a campfire. Her hands left the armrests, fingers gently spreading my politely crossed legs, and she lowered herself to rest on her knees. Even kneeling between my legs, we were eye to eye._ **_I could not move._ ** _Her hands began a parallel performance as they traveled from my knees down to the hem of my modest skirt, under it, then ever so slowly up past my knee-high stockings. Her eyes, burning blue as the hottest portion of a flame, never left mine. Calloused thumbs worked in tandem massaging circles up my inner thighs until she made it to my center._

_She slipped my soaked panties aside._

_I could not_ **_stop_**. 

_I leaned forward, driving her thumb deep into my need, and kissed her._

_I_ **_kissed_ ** _her._ **_I_ ** _kissed_ **_her_ ** _._

_I-_

I woke with a jolt, pulled from my sleep by the ringing of my bedside phone.

“FUCK!” I screamed, picking up the receiver. Before Joe had even had the chance to tell me, I knew that I had overslept. Sitting up, I felt the residual heat of my dream leak between my thighs, and wiped slick fingers on my nightgown before making the executive decision to be late but presentable. There was no time to shower but I _needed_ to.

* * *

The bright side to being late that morning, and having Joe cover for me, was that I could avoid Jamie at least until our next interview. I was still reeling, feeling my temperature rise whenever snippets of my dream replayed like a film in my head, and I was forced to snap myself out of it repeatedly. 

“It’s no’ like ye to be late, Claire. What’s going on wi’ you?” Geillis commented when she saw me rushing in. “I know it wasna _Frank_ keeping ye up all night.” 

“No, I, uh…” I forced a laugh and avoided her eyes, trying to _will_ my cheeks not to flush, and for my face to not give anything away. Not that there was anything to give away, of course. It was just a dream. A very realistic, very _specific_ dream. “I just didn’t sleep very well.”

Fortunately Geillis didn’t pry any further, and merely handed off some patient files I’d been needing to update. Having missed my opportunity to conduct morning interviews, I looked to the schedule of events for the next place to insert myself when I was approached by the director of the program, himself.

“Mrs. Randall, you’ll be joining us for simulation therapy.” I turned from the schedule board to the research director, Dr. Saint-Germain. “Your prompts.” He handed me a manila folder before he walked away. 

* * *

I could sense Dr. Saint-Germain’s eyes on me from beyond the one-way glass as I sat facing the two patients. It was time to begin. John and Jamie sat across from each other, rather than facing me, as I facilitated their artificial date. The room itself was an old operating room; cold, sterile, and too brightly lit for the intimate dinner date environment it was meant to replicate. 

“Right.” I opened the folder of prompts, a checklist of gender specific tasks each patient was meant to perform over the course of the date. John seemed to be a remarkable actor, but for the most part he wasn’t acting at all. His chivalry was innate; he required no encouragement whatsoever when it came to opening doors, seating his date, and ordering his lady’s meal. 

Etiquette was not a problem for Jamie either; it was her absolute disinterest in participating that made my job more challenging. Jamie was visibly uneasy. She had been given a dress to wear for the session (which John had appropriately complimented), but under the table I could see her hands wrestle uncomfortably in her lap. Those same hands that had gently spread my legs. _No._ I shook the thought from my mind, shifting slightly in my seat. 

_Checkmark 7: The female should laugh quietly but genuinely at her male companion’s jokes. Emphasis on proper eye contact and ladylike body language._

“J-Siobhan,” I cleared my throat, keeping my eyes fixed on the checklist. _God I don’t want to be here right now._ “If you would please... acknowledge your date’s good humour.” _What kind of sick shit is this?_ Hearing Dr. Saint-Germain’s words in my own unsteady voice disgusted me; the puppet-master’s grip tightened on my strings. I was all but ready to toss the damned folder and make a break for it when John suddenly spoke up. 

“How do you like your _meat_ , darling? Or would you have preferred the _fish?”_ The cunning captain played a dangerous game as he winked a pale blue eye at her across the table. “And the beverage I ordered for you, is it not _fruity_ enough?”

Life sprung into Jamie’s shadowed eyes as she threw her glorious head of red locks back and spluttered a laugh. I couldn’t help but laugh too; for a brief moment it felt as though we truly were friends in a diner, sharing laughs over milkshakes. 

A light rap on the faux mirror behind us reminded me exactly where we were. Siobhan reached for a napkin as her chuckle transitioned to a cough and her gaze returned to her lap. Storm clouds eclipsed that glimpse of sunshine, covering her once again in a cold shadow. 

The rest of the ‘date” went purely according to the checklist, albeit awkwardly: John had ‘paid’ for dinner, walked his date home- _which was really just the door to the O.R.-_ and Jamie had thanked him for a ‘wonderful evening’. The date came to a close with reasonable success, but there was one last item to check off. 

_The goodnight kiss_ . I read the line over and over, glancing up towards the mirrored glass. _Surely this is not consensual, or even ethical for that matter?_ John took matters into his own hands, saving me from needing to direct them. He sighed deeply, placed his hand at the base of Siobhan’s neck, and gently pulled her face down to his. I tried to dissolve, to disappear, to make myself as discreetly invisible as possible as I stood beside them with my eyes cast down. 

The therapy notes had this session documented as their fourth, so John had known what was expected of him and gave the program director a disturbing performance. _Christ, it felt like they had been kissing forever,_ but I knew they hadn’t _._ I looked up with all intention of ending this sick game when I realized Jamie was looking at _me_. Her tall frame was stiffly bent forward to meet John but something changed when she caught me looking back at her. He went to pull away, lifting his mouth from her glistening lower lip, but she latched on. 

_What the-_

Her lips spread slightly as she slipped her tongue into his mouth, but her electric eyes never left mine. I could not move.

“Siobh-”

“Good work, Mrs. Randall, Mr. Grey, Miss Fraser,” Saint-Germain interrupted, appearing in the doorway. I pushed past him, rushing down the corridor before I could stop myself. I hurried past the nurses station and into the staff lavatory, locking the door behind me, but of course that wouldn’t stop Geillis. She had seen me in passing and wouldn’t be far behind. _To hell with the bloody makeup._ I filled my palms with running faucet water then doused my flaming hot face over and over again. 

“Lemme in, Claire!”

I towel dried a combination of icy water, burning tears, and black mascara. “Geillie, I’m _fine_.” 

“Yer behavin’ like a madwoman today!” 

“Well, what did you expect?” I faked a laugh and she softened.

“Are ye going to let me in, or do I have to-” I unlocked the door and pushed it open before she could finish.

“I’m _fine_. I promise.” She had her hands on her hips but folded them when I said this, pursing her lips and eyeing me suspiciously. “Really, Geillis. I think I’m going to take my lunch early, though.”

Geillis made a typical ‘Scottish noise’ in her throat and nodded, stepping aside for me to pass. For the first time, I found myself unable to talk to my best friend; how could I tell her the truth when I barely knew what the truth was myself? 

I met Joe in one of the hospital’s courtyards, sat beside him on a bench in the sun, ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and made sure the topic of conversation stayed on him. He gladly filled me in on how things were going on the paediatric mental health ward, but while I would normally have been very interested to hear about it, my mind would not allow me to concentrate for any extended period of time. 

When Joe mentioned various disturbed children who would scream for no reason, I instantly recalled my first day on the ward and how Barbara had screamed. _That_ only made me think of Siobhan sitting at the window in the sun the first time I had laid eyes on her; the way her hair had shone like a halo framing her face, and how she had appeared to somehow possess both stoicism and serenity at the same time. 

When Joe began to tell me of young children who had shown signs of homosexual behavior I imagined a young redheaded girl. He told me how some of those patients, teenagers as young as thirteen, were also being treated with electroconvulsive shock therapy, and I found myself back in that procedure room once again - Siobhan’s dark indigo eyes springing open with the initial waves of electricity, her limbs fighting the restraints, her knuckles white, her jaw clenched. I could hardly bear it. 

I stood, feeling suddenly queasy. “Thanks for lunch, Joe.”

* * *

“What do ye mean ye dinna have a Jamie Fraser in yer ward?”

My ears pricked up as I approached the nurses’ station. A light-haired gentleman was staring down a young, mousy-looking trainee nurse, both of them beginning to turn pink in the face for different reasons. 

“Look again,” the man pressed on, “She’s here. I _ken_ she’s here. _Jamie Alexandra Margaret MacKenzie FRASER._ ”

I approached the station and smiled reassuringly at the young girl. “Siobhan Fraser, dear - her file, please.” She stared at me, and then nodded quickly and rushed off to the cabinet to retrieve the file. 

“Thank ye,” the man breathed, straightening himself up and rubbing a hand on his thigh. “I tend tae forget she’s no’ _Jamie_ to these _sons o’ hoors_ .” I recognized the motion, and the limp in his step as he came closer. _Prosthetic limb, probably a below-the-knee amputation._ I had seen many amputations as a military nurse, and could spot a battlefield injury like that at once.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he smiled weakly to the nurse as she returned cautiously and handed me the file. He turned back to me and stuck out his hand in greeting, “I havena seen ye here before. Are ye new?”

I nodded, shaking the hand he offered. “Claire Randall. I’m a medical intern. A pleasure.” 

“Ian Murray,” he introduced himself, “I’m Jamie’s brother-in-law. Is she around? I wasna certain o’ yer visiting hours, and I didna think to call ahead.”

I checked her file and the schedule on the board at the nurses’ station. “Well, it seems she’s currently in _Religious Counselling_ with Mother Hildegard. But, if you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you to where you can wait for her.”

Ian Murray, as it turned out, was more to Jamie than just married to her sister. They had grown up together in Scotland, and been best friends since day one. He had continued to visit Siobhan in the ward as often as he could; though his wife, Jenny, had stopped coming when Jamie had apparently lashed out at her. Instead of getting into that, Ian filled the air with stories of their childhood adventures while we sat in one of the visitation rooms. He smiled fondly at the images he conjured up, his warm, kind eyes glinting with the memories. 

“Where did she get the name ‘Jamie’ from, anyway?” I couldn’t help asking. I had been curious about this since she had corrected me during our first interview, but had been cautious in bringing it up. 

Ian grinned widely at me. “Ah, I see ye ken that’s what she prefers, then? I wondered how ye knew who I meant, back there.” I nodded. “Aye, well, when Jamie was a wean in her Ma’s belly, Auld Brian - that’s her Da - was certain she would be a lad. He and Ellen began calling her Jamie before she was even born. Seumas, her name would ha’ been. That’s Gaelic for James, ye ken.”

I nodded, “So they just kept calling her Jamie?”

“They tried ‘Siobhan’ in the beginning, I think, but Brian would always slip back into the habit. I’ve never called her anything other than Jamie in all my life. It’s just who she is, who she’s always been. A wild wee lass with flaming hair, trekking with me through muddy bogs and clambering up trees just to prove that a lass _could_. Aye, they kept calling her Jamie.” 

“Has she always been, uh…”

His face went still. “Jamie has always looked at lasses the way all the lads looked at _her_ .” His dark eyes still glinted with memories, but he looked lost in them for a moment. “I remember looking at her that way, once, when we were youngins. She was my best friend, ye ken, but when I was around twelve I suddenly saw more than just a ‘wild wee lass’ of eleven.” He laughed, quite suddenly, and grinned sheepishly. “Och, it wasna long after that we had our first falling out. She’d started spending more time wi’ one of the farmhands’ lasses than wi’ me, and I wasna having it. I thought, if I couldna have Jamie then I’d have _her_.”

“What happened?” I was grinning nearly as much as Ian was, by that point, and found myself incredibly invested in the dramatic tale of childhood adventures.

“I tried tae kiss the lass one day behind the barn! I didna get very far, though, before Jamie came storming over and punched me, right in the face! She was furious; and all the time she was yelling at me, I thought she was upset about me going after another lass! Och, I figured it out, later, that she’d really been after Anne, herself, all that time.” 

I was about to ask _how_ exactly he had figured it out, when the timid young trainee nurse poked her head into the room, telling us in a shaky voice that Siobhan had finished her session with the Mother Superior. 

I stood, thanking her and turning to Jamie’s visitor once more. “Thank you for the stories, Mr. Murray. I’ll go fetch Jamie for you, shall I?”

He stood too, shaking my hand again and smiling warmly, “Aye, thank _you_ , Dr. Randall. You really are the first person here to show any _real_ interest in my sister-in-law.”

I smiled back, then headed out the visitation room door and towards the east corridor where I knew Jamie would be. She and Mother Hilldegard were walking towards me when I turned the corner, and they both had deep-furrowed brows and pondering looks on their faces - Siobhan’s young, pale and lightly freckled, and Mother Hildegard’s old, weathered, kind and wise; both lost in thought and appearing equally burdened. 

I joined them, walking silently back in the direction of the visitor’s room, opening the door once we reached it and watching as Ian stood and enveloped Jamie in an embrace. 

_“Ciamar a tha thu, mo charaid ghràdhaich?”_ Ian spoke a soft, rich Gaelic I didn’t understand, and held his friend at arms length, looking her over as if to search her for wear and tear. 

“ _Tha mi ceart gu leòr, tapadh leibh, Ian_.” Jamie’s Gaelic was a purr, simultaneously rough and melodic, and I saw the corners of her mouth curling upwards into a lopsided smile, as though the familiarity of the language took her away from this god awful place. 

I closed the door, allowing them privacy. Mother Hildegard was standing at the corridor window overlooking the gardens, her brow still furrowed, lost in thought. I approached silently, unsure whether she was in prayer or not. 

“Not all of her troubles are of the mind, my dear.” Though she spoke to me, her eyes remained fixed on the horizon. “Miss Fraser is well educated, has a deep understanding of many things, and she has a kind heart. A troubled heart.”

I stood beside her and glanced out over the trees, too. “Is that why she comes to see you, Mother? Confession?”

“She doesn’t speak a lot, but today she _only_ sat in silence. Whether she used the silence to confess anything, I do not know. That is between Miss Fraser and our God.”

“Is she very religious, Mother?” 

“She was raised Catholic. I think that’s where her distress comes from; the inner conflict between her family and faith, and her heart and nature.”

I nodded, but really I couldn’t even begin to truly relate. I had not been brought up religious the way Siobhan had been, but I had experienced spirituality through historical sites while travelling with my Uncle Lamb, who had raised me. My parents had died in a car accident when I was a child, and despite having been baptised Catholic, I had never found myself drawn to religion the way I had always been called to healing. I had put my trust in science, and in facts, my whole life. I’d always had faith in the people I cared about. I couldn’t fathom how Siobhan must be feeling, but I vowed to find out.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gàidhlig (Scots Gaelic) translations:
> 
> “Ciamar a tha thu, mo charaid ghràdhaich?”  
> \- How are you, my dear/loved friend?
> 
> “Tha mi ceart gu leòr, tapadh leibh, Ian.”  
> \- I'm ok, thank you, Ian
> 
> Thanks, as always, to [preciouslittleingenue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciouslittleingenue/pseuds/preciouslittleingenue) and [JeSuisPrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisPrest/pseuds/JeSuisPrest) for being incredible Betas <3


	4. Cingulomania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’d sat quite still and silent for a minute, his back straight and his hands resting on his knees, as if waiting for orders from a superior. _It’s funny,_ he had said, eventually. _It’s so quiet and peaceful here. Nothing like it was in Italy._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Cingulomania_ : (n) The strong desire to hold a person in your arms.

[ ](https://ibb.co/v45FTTS)

“You’ve got to be bloody kidding me!” I slapped the steering wheel, yelling at both the creator of the universe and the maker of my Buick. Monday morning was already a shit show, and I hadn’t even arrived on the ward yet. All had begun rather well until I attempted to start my car. The engine spluttered, jolting me, my glasses, _and_ my coffee. After two attempts, I had lost my patience.

“Thanks again, darling,” I said to Frank sincerely as we pulled up to the hospital entrance in his Cadillac. I leaned in to kiss him goodbye when a familiar form crossed my field of vision. I pulled away from Frank, turning to my friend instead.

“Abernathy, wait!” I could spot Joe anywhere; mostly because he was the only black man in a physician’s coat. He was just about to walk through the revolving door when he turned to my voice, sporting his pristinely white smile. As I opened the passenger door and planted my foot on the pavement, Frank placed a hand on my shoulder, turning me to face him.

“Do have a better day, Claire,” he said, kissing me gently but purposefully, lingering on my lips with envy’s green-eyed grin. Frank’s annoyance with Joe was palpable, laughable even, but misdirected. I knew he had his suspicions, but he had never asked me outright whether there was anything going on between us. Honestly, the topic was too ridiculous to even entertain. 

I shut the car door behind me, quickening my steps with an awkward skip to reach Joe and head inside to begin our shift.

* * *

I expected to find Siobhan and John sitting in their usual spots in the sun, on either side of the chess board. She was there, her back to me, but John had been replaced by a different man. This new man’s face was weathered; not so much from age as from years of working outdoors, I imagined. He was thin, with dark brown hair and a scraggly beard, and he was smiling warmly at Jamie. _Her father?_ Perhaps. He didn’t look very much like her, as I’d pictured her father would.

I walked further into the room, greeting some of my other patients, but I kept one eye on the pair at the window. As I drew nearer my ears pricked up. They were conversing in Gaelic, just as she had done with her brother-in-law, Ian; I didn’t understand the Scottish tongue, but their conversation sounded intense, yet familiar and loving. 

Geillis came in, then, and handed me my patient files for the day’s interviews. I couldn’t help asking her who the man was, excusing my blatant curiosity by saying I hadn’t been informed that Siobhan would have guests that morning.

“No, I dinna think he’s her father.” Geillis thoughtfully eyed the weasel-like visitor. “Her uncle, perhaps. Mr. _Fitzgibbons_ Fraser. He hasna visited before, so I dinna ken more than his name.”

“What is it they’re saying?” I tried my best to make it sound like professional curiosity, but Geillis glanced at me suspiciously and let out a huff. 

“Spying on patients, now, are we?” 

I gulped, “No, no. I just need to know, so that I’m prepared for our interview later.”

“Mmhm.” She smirked, and turned back to look at the pair who were still deep in conversation. “He’s saying ‘ _Ye look too skinny, lass. I hope the parritch is alright here, not like that God-awful shite ye were gettin’ in France._ ’” Geillis chuckled, and I saw that Jamie was grinning, too. 

She replied playfully, and Geillis translated. “ _Aye, and ye look tae old, man. How far gone are ye? About a hundred?’_ Geillis giggled as she said this, nodding towards Mr. Fitzgibbons Fraser, “I reckon she’s right, too!”

“Geillis!” I batted her arm. “What is he saying _now_?”

“Alright, alright. Keep yer heid, Claire. He’s saying ‘ _Yer just like yer Ma; always wisecracking.’_ ”

They fell silent. Jamie’s eyes turned towards the window, looking out over the garden, but the man was still looking at her fondly, his dark eyes warm.

“Now,” Geillis turned and tugged on my arm to follow her as she headed back out into the corridor, “Ye just leave them be, aye? Captain Grey is outside. Why don’t ye start with him today?”

I took Geillis’ advice, making my way out to the gardens. The sun was bright, beating down and causing me to squint as I walked out into its glare. When my eyes finally adjusted I could see young Captain Grey. He was walking slowly among the flowerbeds, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. It was at times like this that I could truly see the military influence in him; his posture, his movements. 

I watched as he circled back around the beds and couldn’t help but notice how his eyes were fixed in the direction of the paediatric ward’s gardens. What was it Geillis had said? _Preoccupied with the youngins?_ I couldn’t fathom it, even knowing the little about him I did. It simply didn’t _seem_ to fit. That’s when I noticed John blushing. Although his head was now bowed, his gaze remained fixed towards the fence. I followed his eyeline and noticed a young man standing in the shade of the trees. He couldn’t have been much younger than Captain Grey; he was a teenager, really, with short, brown curls. He was well-built, and even for his young age I could see the same air of the military about him as I saw in John. 

My years as a nurse had taught me just how much information you could gather from a patient through quiet observation. _At least that’s what I told myself, rather than acknowledge that I was born to be nosy._ I didn’t want to interrupt him, but when I saw the young man glance up knowingly and John shift quickly as his hand ostensibly brushed the blonde fringe that masked his face, I was overcome by curiosity.

“Captain Grey,” I said after clearing my throat to avoid startling him. “I believe we’re due for another interview session if you’re not busy.” _Not busy, Beauchamp? Really? There’s absolutely nothing to bloody do here!_

His spine straightened upon hearing my voice, _so much for not scaring the poor boy,_ but he didn’t turn to greet me immediately. Just over his shoulder I could see the young man, along with children much younger than him, being herded back inside by the nuns. John inhaled deeply, collecting the invisible pieces he must have allowed to float freely from the window of his heart before I appeared.

He turned, sporting a gentle grin, but his eyes were hooded with grief, “I’d like nothing more, Dr. Randall.”

* * *

I had seen many wounded soldiers during the war - gunshot wounds, shrapnel, a variety of bayonet injuries - but I had remained safely behind the front lines for the most part. I had seen physical and mental effects of war - the devastation and destruction beyond the fragile walls of temporary field hospitals, heard the air raid sirens echoing through the streets above us as we piled into bomb shelters, and watched as families mourned over the bodies of the young men they had called _brother_ , _father_ , or _son_. But the way John Grey described the battlefields he’d seen, shook me to the core so that, even an hour later, as I sat down to eat my lunch with Joe, I was still thinking about it.

When I’d pulled the young Captain into the interview room, he had seemed lost in thought, his eyes like a distant, blue-misted sky. He’d sat quite still and silent for a minute, his back straight and his hands resting on his knees, as if waiting for orders from a superior. _It’s funny,_ he had said, eventually. _It’s so quiet and peaceful here. Nothing like it was in Italy._

He was right, too. I could recall the constant noise, the distant gunfire I could hear even as far away from the action as we had been. Even on VE Day, though it was celebratory, there was still a constant buzz in the air. And yet, somehow, in the hustle and bustle of a busy hospital, with screaming patients and crackling intercom announcements, code alarms and constant chatter, there was a sort of peace. Perhaps one could only experience it after having been through a war. 

Beside me, Joe flipped through patient files and sipped his coffee, seemingly unaware of the blessing of the calmness around us. I watched as he brushed sandwich crumbs from the file in front of him, and my eyes fell on the photograph of a patient, stuck between the pages. A grayscale version of the young man I had seen earlier, with curly hair and a blank expression on his youthful face, stared up at me from the Polaroid. 

“Handsome lad. Isn’t he a bit old for your ward?” I asked, as relaxed as I could. The need for casual questioning seemed to be becoming a habit for me. Fortunately, Joe didn’t seem to think anything of it. 

“I’m just prepping his file for transfer to your ward, actually.” He turned the folder around for me to see and slid it in my direction. “He’ll be eighteen in a couple of weeks.”

I glanced down at his patient information sheet, thumbing the Polaroid out of the way in order to read the name. “Percival Wainwright _._ What’s he in for? _Surely_ not conversion therapy?”

“We’re treating his War Neurosis, mostly, but yes, conversion therapy, too.” His cavalier tone gave me pause, and for a moment, I questioned whether Joe was as viscerally disgusted by the treatments as I was. 

I nodded, paging through the young man’s file. “Eighteen? God, he must’ve been a _child_ during the war.” I couldn’t help comparing him to Captain Grey, who himself had been just shy of sixteen when he first tasted the disenchantment of the battlefield.

_“Was it your first time experiencing something like that? The Commotion in Italy?” I had recalled various methods of open-ended questioning we’d learned about in our psychology class, trying to provide the push John needed to speak about whatever was on his mind._

_“My family connections had kept me on home soil for more than a year of my enlistment. I was overly enthusiastic and pining for the approval of my brother, my superiors, my general. Before I knew it, I was a captain, and among the youngest in the whole 7th Battalion.” He gave a small half-smile, as though the pride he had felt once, like a roaring fire inside him, was reigniting with each memory he recalled._

_“My brother, Hal, had gone before me, and he would write to me from the front lines - stories of heroism, of adventure, and of victory; so when the division got called up I was_ _naïvely_ _excited. From the moment we landed in Italy the noise was deafening - artillery fire, explosions, shouting. We were hunkered down in old German trenches, and I was shaking in my boots. We all were. Except...” John’s eyes met mine for a brief moment before they dropped once more. “Except Hector.”_

Joe nodded as I continued flipping through the pages in Percy’s file, “He won’t talk about it, much. I think his step-father was a general. He pressured the kid into enlisting early and vouched that he was older. From what I can gather, he barely survived over there; he was one of the few who made it onto an American ship on the way out of Anzio.”

 _“All that time, during the raid on Anzio, Hector was strong. His men needed him -_ I _needed him - and he fought hard. He fought_ so _hard.” As John spoke his voice got quieter, with every memory, until it faded away into the silence between us. But talking about it, I hoped, would help John with whatever pain he was still holding onto._

_“Did you look up to him? This ‘Hector’?”_

_“I did, always. I admired him, I learned from him, I… I loved him.” His slim shoulders shook with silent sobs, but his hands had balled up into white-knuckled fists, clasping at the fabric of his trousers._

_He suddenly appeared much younger, as though his small frame mirrored the one in his memories from five years before. Through gritted teeth, and rattling breath, he told me of the moment when Hector had turned and smiled at him from down the line, and how that smile froze in place as he crumpled to the dirt. A stray bullet had hit him from the side._

A cold breeze picked up and fluttered the pages of Wainwright’s file, exposing a transfer form from Valley Forge General Hospital, a military hospital in Pennsylvania - I’d seen that name before, in John’s file; I was sure of it. 

* * *

The rec room furniture had been rearranged so that the gaming tables fit together at the center of the room; paper, pencils, and crayons lay scattered across them like a family style dinner for all to chaotically dig into. _Art Therapy,_ the schedule of events at the nurses’ station had said. The room was shrouded in the golden glow of the evening, and I couldn’t help but scan the place in search of amber, copper, cinnamon, _ginger._

My legs worked their way in her direction before I had even made up my mind to move. I hadn’t interviewed Jamie since my very first shift on the ward, so it only made sense to check in on her progress. Her head was bowed in concentration, shoulders hunched over a sketch, left hand smeared with graphite as she worked the pencil in short, swift strokes.

Jamie abandoned her creation, a curly haired gentleman, with a silent nod in my direction. She scooted back her chair and stood, simultaneously sliding the portrait toward her usual partner in crime. I meant to look away but couldn’t help myself. I smiled, gifting John my acknowledgement and support when he nervously glanced up before sneaking the sketch, undeniably Percy, into his pocket.

There was a lightness, an airiness to her; a faint glow from within that she hadn’t had when we first met. She looked me in the eyes, answering my vague questions about how she’d been with a hopeful aura about her. 

“He’s no’ my Da, he’s my Godfather. He always felt more like a ‘second father,’ though. Murtagh has always looked out for me, and let me be. He couldna bear the thought of sending me here, but to debate my uncles while dealing wi’ my father’s funeral was far too much for one man.” 

I willed my face not to flush as she told me the story of her admission to Danvers State Hospital. Her sister, Janet, had made a surprise appearance at her university dorm in France. They had fired harsh words at each other when Jenny was faced with the realization that the friend, Annalise, that Jamie had written to her about, was more of a bedmate than roommate. Jenny told their uncles, Colum and Dougal, and they had her involuntarily committed to Danvers’ world class conversion therapy program.

“We Frasers are notoriously stubborn and hot-headed, ye ken, but my elder sister has always been untamable as a wee wildfire. I ken _now_ that she was only shocked, and probably disappointed. She raised me, protected me since we were wee lasses, so for her to see me going completely against our Sunday learnings was too much for her to bear. But, at the time, I was too stubborn and ashamed to see it.”

“Is that why she doesn’t visit anymore?”

“Aye, in a way. She’d come tae tell me our Da had passed, not long after I arrived here. Whenever we had argued as lasses, neither of us would want tae be the first to apologize. We would spit fire for a while, but eventually we would always make amends. But, that day, her tone set me off. I was angry and more ashamed than I’d ever felt, and I lashed out at her. She left, and I havena seen her since.” She paused for a moment, tucking a stray red curl behind one ear as she gathered her thoughts.

“All this time I’d been hating myself for more reasons than I aught. I thought it was me who killed him, you see. Jenny told me that the same day Da found out that I had been _hoorin’ like a she-devil_... he... he died. But today Murtagh told me I wasna to blame at all.” She struggled to maintain that fragile flame within, the spark of light that shame had long shadowed, and her eyes left mine; but she gathered herself, and her light burned brighter as she continued on with the story. 

The truth of the matter was that Murtagh had been there when Jamie’s father confronted her uncles for sending his beloved daughter away. Brian’s eyes had rolled back, his right side went limp, and he had landed solidly at their feet. _A very unfortunately timed stroke,_ I stupidly thought to myself, as if there were ever a ‘fortunate time’ for something like that.

Her hands, smeared with gray, were clasped tightly in her lap, her thumb unconsciously circling the floral tattoo at the base of her wrist. When she looked up to face me again, the storm of emotion stirring within her broke loose, and the ocean tides in her eyes were finally freed.

“Ye don’t understand the weight that’s been lifted from me, Claire- Doctor Randall,” she corrected as she wiped her tears, making a mess of her freckled face with smudges of graphite.

My hand left my body with a mind of its own, and I saw myself reach across the coffee table between us. It was both in slow motion and far too quick for me to process. In one swift move I grabbed a Kleenex, made my way to her side of the small interview room before she could stand, and wrapped her in my arms. She froze for just a moment, tensing, shrinking away, and I nearly let go when she suddenly let out the most heartbreakingly beautiful sob. _How long had she been here carrying this burden?_ _How long had it been since she’d been held?_

Standing, I was just a few inches taller than her and smoothed my hand over her back as she wept into my shoulder, copper curls spilling onto my chest. When her cries quieted and her breathing slowed, the intimacy of the moment abruptly surfaced and my own panic began to rise. _What have I done?_ I pulled away gently, breaking our embrace, and trying desperately to return to monotone professionalism. _Beauchamp, what have you done?_

“I’m glad Murtagh was able to visit and tell you the truth of your father’s passing. His acceptance of you seems to mean a lot to you, and your acceptance of yourself is remarkable progress. Thank you for your openness today, Jamie.” 

Only a sigh escaped her as she stood and made her way to the door. It must’ve been her tone or my own anxiety causing me to hear things, but I could sense the ghost of a smile on her lips when she stepped into the hall and whispered, “Thank ye, Claire,” without even looking back.

* * *

Joe had offered to drive me home, as we left the ward in an elevator together, but _that_ drama was the last thing I needed this cursed day to end with. I sat on the wooden bench at the Danvers entrance mindlessly thumbing through paperwork while I waited for Frank to collect me. My mind was a flurry of reassurances. _I did nothing wrong. Anyone would react that way. It was a simple therapeutic touch. I handed the girl a damned tissue and patted her back._

Exasperated with myself, this fucking asylum, and Frank for being late, I flipped my notepad open harshly and a loose scrap of paper attempted to escape on the night’s wind. I would’ve let the godforsaken thing go if I wasn’t afraid it could be private medical information. I reached out, sandwiching the note against the armrest of the bench just in time. 

A blank sheet of construction paper had been folded several times and when opened it was seemingly just that, but in a corner on the backside was a miniature sketch about the size of a quarter. Had it not been for the cool breeze, I would have fainted right then and there. A halo of gray smeared the left side of the tiny pencil drawn portrait but it was clearly, undeniably, _me._

Even smaller, barely visible under the light of the streetlamps, was the artist's calling card. 

_JAMMF_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who continues to read and support us and this fic! We appreciate all the love, all the comments, and all the shares!  
> Special thanks to [preciouslittleingenue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciouslittleingenue/pseuds/preciouslittleingenue) and [JeSuisPrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisPrest/pseuds/JeSuisPrest), as always, for being incredible betas and helping us with this difficult chapter. We love you both <3
> 
> And Happy Birthday to Jen! The biggest John stan we know, and a totally freakin badass, awesome, amazing woman!  
> Thanks for all your support!! This one goes out to you <3


	5. The Venus de Milo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Evening ‘outdoor time’ was a new experience for me, having only just been switched to the nightshift, but I had a feeling it was not usually so _uneventful_. The patients stood silently, dispersed among the flowerbeds and sitting in various plastic chairs, as though they had been placed there at the top of the hour and hadn’t moved since."
> 
> Claire returns to work after a week away only to discover that _something_ has happened to her patients.

[ ](https://ibb.co/xsHSbV3)

I entered the room like an obverse Moses - if the usual, busy ward was the dry ground I walked on, then the towering walls of water, the looming presence on either side, manifested in the stillness of every patient around me. All I could hear was the echoing click of my heels on the linoleum floor and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. The smoky haze of tobacco that typically filled the air was noticeably absent as I walked between the tables, observing each patient as I went.

Barbara sat before a jigsaw puzzle per usual, but as I came closer I realized her head of greasy hair was nodding, the reliably loud presence now only emitted childlike snores.  _ Master Bates,  _ as I’d grown accustomed to calling him thanks to Geillie, stood leaning against a wall, both hands slack at his sides. Mr. Adams sat slumped in a chair beside the silent radio, the knobs of which he was not fiddling with, for once. 

All the commotion that I had become accustomed to was now suspended in animation, and I had no idea what the  _ bloody hell _ was going on. I reached the far end of the room and turned towards the two patients I wanted to see most.

Jamie and John sat silently at the window; the golden evening light washing over them despite the unfamiliar, eerie silence that fell over the ward. Two sets of eyes looked out into the garden, as usual, but they were half-lidded and vacant. I had been anxious to get back to work after my week away with Frank on his business trip - anxious to see them, to see  _ her _ . They had both been making progress in leaps and bounds when I had left, but somehow, over the course of the week,  _ something _ had changed. 

“John?” My voice cut through the silence as I studied the captain. His spine didn’t straighten at the sound of his name. His shoulders remained hunched, his hands lay heavy in his lap; this was  _ not _ the young soldier I knew. With bated breath I turned my eyes towards his companion.

“Jamie?” The only movement was the rise and fall of her breathing, and a single, slow blink of her unfocused eyes.

“Siobhan?” I tried to elicit  _ any _ response from her, daring to rest my hand on her shoulder - but she only sighed deeply; drawing in the light that surrounded us, yet failing to hold onto it. I removed my hand and turned away, surprised by the lump beginning to form in my throat. The click of my heels rang out more swiftly as I left the room and made a beeline for the nurses’ station.

* * *

“Claire! Yer back - thank heavens!” Upon seeing me, Geillis’s face turned from exasperation to excitement and relief in an instant.

“I was only gone for a week, Geillie.” I smiled, but couldn’t shake the confusion and concern of what I had seen, “What has happened to all my patients? ” 

“Aye, ‘ _ only  _ a week’, and the minute ye left, all yer patients lost their heids.” She set down a stack of files in favor of a clipboard. 

“What happened?” I followed close behind as she headed to the dispensary, unable to mask my curiosity. She gave orders to the young, mousy trainee-nurse and turned back to me with a wide-eyed look.

“Och, no time tae blether on about it now.” Despite the fact that she turned away and had begun to check off various things on her clipboard, Geillis was plainly dying to tell me. 

“Geillie. Just  _ tell _ me, would you?” I sighed in exasperation, taking her clipboard from her and setting it on the counter behind me. The height of my concern made me unwilling to play her games.

Finally she relented, doling out medication while she briefly filled me in on the events of the past week. It had started when an orderly had been making the patients’ beds. Captain Grey had returned to his room just in time to witness the discovery of a folded up drawing hidden inside his pillowcase.  _ Jamie’s sketch of Percival. _

John’s attempt to reclaim the drawing had apparently gone awry, and he had gotten agitated, raising his voice. This had alerted several other patients, including Siobhan who, with her fiery Fraser disposition, managed to cause quite an uproar. 

“It w-was a n-nightmare!” The timid trainee-nurse appeared with her tray of paper water cups and eyes the size of saucers. “I d-don’t think I’ve seen an-nything like it in my life!”

The timorous young girl, in her stiffly-starched, white nurse’s uniform, stuttered her way through a telling of her version of events. Being new, and rather afraid of the conflict she saw before her, she had waited off to the side and watched the whole thing unfold. 

Jamie’s loyalty to her friend had riled her up to the extent of lashing out at the orderly, requiring a nurse to separate them. Barbara had begun screaming and throwing things, another patient had stripped to his underpants and started running up and down the corridor, and several others had begun a physical attack on the nurse responsible for holding Jamie back. 

Finally, several more nurses and nuns had arrived, and syringe after syringe of sedatives had been plunged into the patients’ veins. That had been the beginning of the chemically induced silence.

The mental image of the chaos and the sudden, contrasting stillness I had witnessed in the rec room that evening, spun through my mind. It seemed far-fetched; I had felt mild discomfort during my first one on one sessions with  _ all _ of my patients, but never fear, and  _ never _ when alone with Jamie  _ or _ John. 

I forced myself not to run as I left the dispensary and headed back down the hall to the nurses’ station. My hands trembling, I reached for the stack of manilla folders Geillis had set down. I shuffled through them, looking for  _ their _ charts, opening to the medication information when I finally found them. 

Sweet John, who previously had been titrated down to  _ half _ as much as Dr. Saint-Germain’s other research patients, had now been placed on a dose  _ twice _ the amount of the others. Jamie’s dose had increased  _ threefold _ . I stood at the nurses' station with my mouth agape, too appalled to let out what was screaming in my mind and the words sticking in my throat anyway.

Geillis knew I was seething and her singsong sarcasm didn’t help. “Aye, your precious patients lost their patience.” She mocked weakly, then took on a more genuine tone when she looked me in the eye. “Ye ken Doctor Saint-Germain does what he _ must _ to help them, Claire.” 

She turned to the girl beside her for corroboration. “They really were harming themselves, were they no, Mary?" _ Mousy _ sheepishly nodded her puppet-like head.

I scooped the stack of patient charts into my arms and held them close to my chest - mostly to avoid dropping them, but also in an attempt to prevent myself from completely exploding - and left for my interviewing office without saying another word.

* * *

Paperwork offered a welcome distraction, but my mind kept returning to the feeling that I needed to  _ do something _ . I sat, absentmindedly skimming progress notes from my week away. My mind was a carnival, over-crowded and loud, and I kept colliding with myself over and over again in a house of mirrors. There was  _ so much _ to think about, and yet not  _ enough _ thinking was being done to produce a solution.  _ Well then, figure it out, Beauchamp. _ I pushed the documents aside, giving in to my incessant need to mend things and grabbing my notepad before leaving for the gardens. 

The sun had gotten much lower, and the sky was fading into the dull blue-grey that seemed to always follow the crimson and gold. I stepped out into the cool evening air, my notepad in hand, and looked around the garden. Evening ‘outdoor time’ was a new experience for me, having only just been switched to the nightshift, but I had a feeling it was not usually so  _ uneventful. _ The patients stood silently, dispersed among the flowerbeds and sitting in various plastic chairs, as though they had been placed there at the top of the hour and hadn’t moved since. 

My eyes were drawn at once to the only remaining movement; red hair lifting languidly in the breeze. Jamie had her back to me, head dipped forward, arms at her sides. Even without seeing her face I knew her eyes would be blank, staring into the middle-distance. I forced myself to look away, turning to look towards the fenced-off gardens of the adjacent paediatric ward. 

A familiar face stood out to me at once; short, light brown curls and an expression painted with concern as he peered through the fence.  _ In the direction, _ I noted,  _ of a certain captain. _ I walked over to the young man, realizing that the last time I had seen his face it had been dark smudges and lines of graphite on a scrap of paper. 

I remembered the tiny portrait I had discovered a week before. I remembered the left hand that had captured Percy’s likeness and my own. And, before I could shake the thoughts from my head, I recalled the equally dark smudges that had marked her pale skin, her face, as she had cried in my arms. I wondered whether she would ever  _ feel _ enough to cry again, to open up to me, to speak despite the audible lump in her throat. 

I swallowed the lump in my own throat as I approached Percy. He drew his eyes away from John, when he felt my presence, and fidgeted nervously with the wire of the fence. His eyes flicked up to meet mine and I smiled in response, as warmly as I could. It was easy to forget he was still a week shy of eighteen. His face was pained, lined with sleepless nights and worry; I wondered how much of that worry was over John.

“I hate seeing them like this,” I spoke softly, afraid to startle the young man who I knew was being treated for War Neurosis. “They’re too quiet, too still. I’m used to the chatter and chaos, the rowdiness of field hospitals.”

Percy nodded, allowing himself to look across the garden once more. “I hate it too. It’s as though they’re empty shells, as if the spark has left their eyes.” His hands fidgeted with the fence wire again, more intently.

“You knew Captain Grey before, didn’t you, Percy? From the war?” He nodded again, his brow creased. I could see he was on the verge of saying something when a call rang out behind him, and he jumped, spinning around. It was only a nun calling the children inside, and Percy relaxed. He turned to glance back at John, then at me, and gave a sad smile as he walked across the lawn to his ward.

I left my docile patients out in the garden. My mind felt thick and heavy, and I just wanted to sit. The nearest empty room was the rec room and, without really realizing, I found myself sitting at the far end in the seat usually occupied by Jamie. It felt odd, sitting in her place while I looked out to where she stood in the garden, like an ancient marble statue of some fiery greek goddess. Unmoving, silent, lifeless, defeated.

I hated it.  _ I hated it.  _ I could not  _ stand _ seeing them like this, seeing  _ her _ like this. Percy had said it - they were like empty vessels, without so much as a spark of life behind their eyes. Long gone were Jamie’s lopsided grin and the cheeky smirk behind John’s facade of politeness. My heart felt like a concrete block inside my chest; my emotions were a torrent and I felt as though I were drowning. I had to do something about it. I  _ had  _ to fix things.  _ But how? _

* * *

I walked quietly through the ward, using the opportunity that dinnertime provided to slip into the dispensary unseen. I peered over my shoulder as I turned each corner, trying to shake the unnerving feeling of being watched. There was nobody else around, of course, but when you’re breaking the rules you’re bound to feel a  _ little _ paranoid. 

I walked up to the nurses’ station, the hairs on the back of my neck poised to stand at the first sight of another human being. With one last careful look up and down the corridor, I reached into the far corner of the drawer, retrieving the box where I knew the spare keys were kept. The small, steel key was conveniently labelled ‘ _ Dispensary’ _ \- This was almost  _ too _ easy. I replaced the box, pocketing the key and closing the drawer before walking swiftly towards my next stop. 

The key turned easily in the lock, but the door creaked - all the more loudly for the fact that I was  _ trying _ to be quiet. I closed it behind me and flipped the lightswitch, waiting for the fluorescent bulbs to flicker to life. My heart was pounding in my chest as I scoured the shelves one by one, my hands dancing along the lines of pill bottles. My eyes scanned the labels, looking for something,  _ anything _ that would work. I began lifting random bottles from their shelves, studying the complicated chemical names and trying to relate  _ any _ of them to a relevant chapter from my medical school textbooks.

“No, no. That won’t do.”

I spun around, my blood running cold in an instant. 

Doc stepped out from behind one of the rows of shelves. His dark; beady eyes glistening above his toothy smile. He held out his hand. I hesitated, my heart still pounding, but relented and placed the bottle I had been holding into his upturned palm. 

“That won’t do at  _ all _ , Madonna.” He looked at the label carefully before putting it back in its place on the shelf. His short, stubby fingers swept along the shelves as he muttered to himself. I watched, my mouth agape, entirely unsure what to make of him. 

“Ah! Here, this is more like it.” He found what he had been looking for, evidently, because he grabbed a bottle from the shelf and turned, holding it out to me. Again I hesitated, but took the bottle anyway. 

“I, um… What is this for, Doc?” If he was a patient - I was as yet  _ unsure _ of this - then it was probably best to placate him, to prevent him from making noise or alerting anyone to my presence in the dispensary. If he was staff -  _ the only alternative _ \- I would need to be extra wary of his intentions.

“For your patients.” He grinned up at me again, his wide mouth and glassy eyes truly giving him the appearance of a toad. 

“Oh?” I glanced down at the bottle, turning it over in my hand to read the label.  _ Placebo _ . My heart leapt into my throat again. My eyes shot back up at him, “How did you know?”

“I believe we are here for the same reason, Madonna.” He reached into the pocket of his odd, patchwork waistcoat and pulled out a handful of capsules. Without a word of explanation, he merely gestured for me to follow him as he walked back through the rows of shelves.

There in the dark, far corner of the dispensary storeroom was a table strewn with pill-making equipment. A pile of open, empty capsules lay beside a mortar and pestle, and several small pill presses. He took the jar of placebos from me, unscrewing the lid and pouring a few of the white tablets into the mortar. 

Once they were sufficiently ground up, he took two empty halves of a capsule and fitted them into a hand-held pill press. He scooped some of the powdered placebo into a hole in the press, and then finally, with the squeeze of a handle, a sealed capsule popped out and rolled across the table. He reached out and took it between his stubby fingers, holding it up to the light to show me.

“ _ Et voila! _ One harmless pill, disguised as a sedative.”

“How did you learn to do that?” I took the capsule in my hand, studying the seamlessness, the perfection. 

“Ah, well. It was my job, once. But, since I was admitted, I only do this for myself. To stay sane.” He smiled up at me, studying my face thoughtfully. “And now, Madonna, I will do it for you, too.” 

I stared at him, unable to formulate sufficient words. I could only reach out and grab him by the shoulders, my eyes prickling with tears as I pulled him into an awkward embrace. 

* * *

I prayed for the on-call phone to ring, for there to be some major medical emergency to break the silence and monotony as I paced the eerie, dimly-lit halls of the infirmary. Night duty shifts during the war had been similarly eerie, but for different reasons. I remembered waiting beside the field hospital hand radio for word of what emergency was to come, while ensuring those already at the infirmary kept breathing or stopped bleeding. Despite being comparatively bland, the night shift at Danvers still required medical attention. 

Asthmatic-schizophrenic, Alex, required breathing treatment after a nurse found him making strenuous breath sounds; I prescribed  _ Albuterol.  _ Frances, one of Joe’s paediatric patients, had caused quite the commotion when she fell out of bed, seizing. Once poor Fanny’s convulsions finally succumbed to  _ Phenobarbital _ , I could set her small arm which had fractured when she fell.

I lost track of names and diagnoses as the night wore on.  _ Hypertensive crisis in 319. Night terrors in 152. Roger won’t stop singing in 017.  _ With dawn approaching I was exhausted but too near the victorious end of my shift to give in to sleep. I continued roaming the corridors instead, making my way back to my own ward and down our runway of patient rooms. 

After chasing calls all over the mental hospital that night, I had learned that all the other units had separate male and female sleeping quarters, whereas the adult conversion therapy unit had alternating male and female rooms and  _ encouraged _ heterosexual relations among patients.

The doors to each patient’s room remained slightly open despite having windows.  _ One last round for good measure.  _ I wasn’t looking for anything or anyone in particular; I just needed to make sure my patients were all okay before my shift ended and I would have to hand over to the day-shift. I poked my head into the first room and anxiously waited for my eyes to adjust from the fluorescent lights of the hall to the natural light of day that gradually threatened the night. 

I knew it was Mr. Adams’ room by the sagging tennis shoes at the bedside, so far beyond their  _ use by _ date that they looked more like a crumpled cotton t-shirt tossed to the floor. I carried on, finding in the dark rooms a token of each patient that I never really paid much attention to during the day. 

By the time I reached John’s room, the morning light had begun to make its way through the windows. I assumed him to be an early riser, maintaining a militarian routine as best he could here; but this morning, with body and mind chemically suppressed, he slept in. I knew the bedroom beside John’s had to be Jamie’s, and I hesitated, my steps a silent staccato toward her door. If I had checked on all of my patient’s there was  _ no reason _ not to look in on her as well. 

My pulse throbbed loudly in my ears as I peered into her bedroom. She slept on her back, one leg pulled up and the other wildly extended. The same white sheets that each patient had were draped loosely over her body, covering her innocence, messily and perfectly at the same time. Under her toga,  _ this _ Venus de Milo  _ had _ arms and hands and they were folded on her belly, rising and falling with each sonorous breath. 

And then she smiled. 

She sighed deeply, pulling her weight to one side as she turned, and the ghost of a childlike smile lightly tugged at the corner of her lips for another second before she relaxed again. I wanted to reach out and touch her, to hold her face in my hands and feel the curve of her lips under my palms, my fingertips deep in her hair. I wanted to shake her, to wake her and drag her away from this hopeless place with me. 

Eventually, I would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a huge thank you to [preciouslittleingenue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciouslittleingenue/pseuds/preciouslittleingenue) and [JeSuisPrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisPrest/pseuds/JeSuisPrest) for their unending love and support, and for being _incredible_ betas.


	6. Myosotis Sylvatica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The words felt bitter on my tongue, metallic, as though I were a child licking the blade of a pencil sharpener. “Do you have any idea how horribly those patients are tortured there? The things I have to stand by and watch?”"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We apologize for the extended hiatus between chapter 5 and this one! This chapter is twice as long as our regular chapters, however, and we hope you enjoy it!

[ ](https://ibb.co/52vRZx3)

The projector whirred, crackled, and clicked as a new image came into focus. Percy Wainwright sat on a chair in the middle of the room, his arms clutching a bucket to his chest, his young body rocking ever so slightly back and forth. The flickering, dim light from the projector glistened against his clammy skin before it clicked once more and the next image appeared. 

His eyes went wide, his breathing hitched, and he emptied the contents of his stomach into the bucket on his lap. The _Apomorphine_ had kicked in. My fists clenched around the edges of my clipboard, my knuckles almost as white as his were. I forced myself to look away, not wanting to see the poor boy in this state. 

Instead I tried to conjure memories of a clean, healthy-looking Percy during our first official interview the week prior. Though I could see it pained him greatly to talk about the war, about his time in Italy, he had done so with great maturity. It was the same kind of maturity I saw in John Grey - the requisite adulthood forced upon young army recruits, drilled into them through their training, and imprinted into their psyche by confronting the harshness of war head-on. 

Once I had asked him all the regular questions required for first interviews, I had closed his file, smiled warmly at him, and told him we would be off the record should he wish to speak about anything else. His eyes had shown only momentary apprehension before he exhaled a sigh. Then he had dropped his guard, just long enough to tell me about a fourteen-year-old boy completely enamored with a captain in his regiment. 

_“He was… Rather special.” The flush in Percy’s cheeks was barely noticeable. “I was rather taken with him from the first I saw him. But he had a… He had_ someone _, you see. An older man, a fellow captain. And I was like a snot-nosed brat, following him around, waiting for him to notice me.”_

_“John Grey.”_

_He nodded, his eyes meeting mine but not really seeing_ me _, at all. “I got stuck on an ally ship leaving Italy, sent across the sea. Then one day I saw him there, in the same hospital, on the same side of the sea. Having him there, his company… He brought familiarity, comfort, a taste of home. For the first time he_ saw _me. We became friends, then more than friends…” He swallowed thickly, his jaw tightened as though he was_ daring _the tears to come._

_“Someone must have seen us because, next thing I knew, John was being restrained and taken away. I… I thought I would never see him again. With him gone… All the comfort and giddiness was replaced with memories of the bombs, the bullets, the chaos. That’s when my episodes started.”_

_“They sent you here, to Danvers. And you_ did _get to see John again.”_

_“I did. The day I was well enough to leave the confines of my room. I was in the gardens, watching the younger children play, and I looked through the fence and… I thought I was seeing a ghost, but… There he was.”_

The projector clicked and whirred again, pulling me from thought. I glanced up at the new image; a photograph of a muscular young soldier in a state of complete undress, aside from his boots and steel Brodie helmet which were the only indications of his vocation. Within seconds, Percy was retching once more, intermittently gasping for breath. 

Finally, he raised his head, but kept his eyes shut; his face was tear-stained and ghostly pale. Across from me, mostly hidden in the shadows against the far wall, Dr. Saint-Germain gave a curt nod of approval. 

_Fucking sadist._

The nurse stepped towards Percy, filling a syringe with colorless liquid before jabbing the needle into his upper arm _._ He didn’t flinch, his body already too drained from the vomiting. She poured water into a cup and helped him drink, mopping his brow with a cloth. 

After a moment of respite, once Percy had caught his breath and regained some color in his face, the projector gave its familiar whir and click. This time the image was of a woman, fair-haired and bare-breasted. The nurse continued to wipe Percy’s forehead and neck with the cool cloth, quietly murmuring in his ear, feeding him reminders to keep his eyes open and fixed on the images. 

Image after image of women in various combinations of pose and undress faded into focus one by one. By the time the projector clicked off, Percy was back to his normal coloring, his breathing steady, and his skin no longer clammy. When he passed me on the way out the room, however, his eyes never met mine. They remained foggy, an opaque window into his drained, exhausted soul. 

I felt the bile rise in my own throat, and forced myself to swallow it down. I hated it; it made _me_ feel sick to see sweet, young Percy being forced to undergo such an ordeal. I wished I could stop them, grab him by the shoulders, force him to meet my eyes and give him _some_ glimmer of hope. If all the doctors had not been there with us, I would have done _anything_ to let him know I was not on _their_ side. I was _not_ one of the monsters who tortured him.

* * *

Two weeks had passed since my rendezvous with Doc at the dispensary and, with the sedatives out of their systems, my patients were far more lucid than I’d ever known them to be. I was certain my decision to replace their sedatives with placebos was the right call, but it made me nervous. If anyone were to catch on, to notice that all my patients were suddenly more alert and aware, my efforts would be in vain. They would be given even higher doses than before, would be forced to undergo even more electroconvulsive shock therapy, and possibly worse things I shuddered to think about. 

I felt a little silly, asking them to continue to act as though they were sedated, but the point was for them to get better, and so I had to convince them it was best to keep their lucidity a secret. I did my best to spend more time with each of them, to give them all a chance to speak freely.

Siobhan especially had become more talkative and open with each passing day. It was as though she had had enough of forced silence and had thus made up her mind to speak. So much so that I’d had to remind her to keep her voice down on multiple occasions, to sit still, to not be so animated in case someone was to see. If I was honest, though, her new-found lightness warmed me, and the more we spoke the more our friendship bloomed.

We’d walked the garden paths every day for more than a week, and yet I felt I could never tire of her presence, and her voice, the way her words rolled from her tongue. Her thick Scots burr was a melody even in hushed tones, an integral part of her, woven into the very fabric of the stories she told. She spoke mostly of her childhood - of how she and Ian had grown up on Siobhan's family farm, how they learned to ride horses together, and how they had caught frogs out of the river and put them in Jenny's bed, waiting around the corner and listening for her shrieks. Jamie had laughed, as she told that story, and her eyes had sparkled in the light of the afternoon sun. 

She had also told me about Annalise, how they had met in the university residence in France, and how she had been Siobhan's first great love. She told me about what Paris was like in the summer, and how the evenings had been just cool enough for her and Annalise to walk through the city together. She would get a far-away look in her eyes when she spoke about her lost love; a look that was almost fondness, but tainted with the sadness of the events that had transpired to bring her to the ward.

She stifled a smile as we walked together once more along the familiar paths; the halo of her curls surrounded her in a blaze of fiery copper, amber, and gold. We reached a bend in the path and she slowed to a stop. Her ocean-blue eyes were searching the flowerbeds when I looked up at her. I felt her hand brush my elbow, and instinctively followed her as she walked around to the other side of the raised bed. We stood quietly for a moment, a faint smile gracing her lips as she looked down. I followed her gaze, my eyes falling on a patch of small, pale-blue flowers.

“ _Myosotis Sylvatica,”_ I recalled the Latin name from a diagram I had seen in a book on botany the week I had gone away with Frank on his business trip. “Forget-me-nots.”

Siobhan nodded, her smile growing as she rolled back the right sleeve of her shirt, revealing the floral tattoo I had only caught small glimpses of before. I instinctively reached out, brushing my fingers lightly across the design. 

“Jamie, it’s _beautiful_.” Rudimentary black ink, with a dusting of pale cerulean-blue delicately filling each of the petals; the resemblance to the small flowers at our feet was undeniable now that I could see them both.

“Thank ye,” she said softly.

My cheeks flushed; I could feel the pulse in her wrist, strong and steady, as she continued to hold her arm out for me to examine the delicate swirls and lines of the ink beneath her skin. 

“Do they hold a special meaning?” I forced myself to release her arm, looking up to see her smiling dreamily.

“Aye,” She blinked, and met my eyes with hers. “They’re for my Ma, for a poem she and my Da would tell us when we were youngins.” Her now-familiar lopsided grin sprung to her lips quite suddenly. 

“We’d gather around in the sitting room in the evenings; Jenny, Willie and I. Our Ma and Da would tell bedtime stories, recite poems, sing songs. Our favorite was a poem called ‘Forget-Me-not’, about a young bride who sends her husband across a river to pick flowers fer her, but he gets swept away in the current.”

“That’s rather a morbid bedtime story,” I chuckled, thinking of how many nursery rhymes we’d learned as children that all had rather dark meanings.

Siobhan’s grin turned into a soft chuckle to match my own. “Aye, well the bride was called Ellen, and that was me Ma’s name. At some point she and Da changed the husband’s name to ‘Brian’, and _that_ made us love it even more.” 

The images conjured up in my head made my heart burst; three young children huddled together, giggling as their parents used each others’ names within an exuberantly performed poem. The closest I had ever come was when my Uncle _Lamb_ would pretend my name was _‘Mary’_ and follow me around the campsites and hotel rooms, or wherever we had been staying at the time. 

“Before she died, I stood by her bed and put my hands on her belly to feel the wee bairn kick, asking to come out. Ma was in pain, I kent it, but she stroked _my_ hair. She didna have much energy, but she whispered the words of the poem - and when she couldna, when the pains came, I would say them for her.” 

Siobhan’s grin had faded, but her eyes held mine for a moment before she looked out over the garden once more. When she spoke, her voice was soft and smooth, even with her Scots burr:

_“And he cried, 'Oh, heaven! hard is my lot,_

_My dearest Ellen! Forget me not:_

_For I was ever true to you,_

_My dearest Ellen! I bid thee adieu!'_

_And I'll remember thee while I live,_

_And to no other man my hand I'll give,_

_And I will place my affection on this little flower,_

_And it will solace me in a lonely hour.”_

She looked down at her tattoo, just for a moment, before rolling her sleeve down over it once more. I watched as the last of the black and blue disappeared, suddenly seeing a wet spot absorb into the fabric of her shirt only to be quickly replaced by a second, and then a third. My heart ached when I looked up and saw her blue eyes brimming. My fingers longed to reach out, sure that _if i could just_ _touch_ her it would all be okay. But I didn’t reach out, my heart didn’t stop aching, and her tears fell silently in the aftermath of the lines she had long since said.

* * *

“What do you call this again?” Jerry, one of Frank’s colleagues, dug into his bowl of meringue, strawberries and whipped cream, making a little hum of appreciation.

He and his wife had come over for dinner - which I barely remembered cooking. Frank and Jerry had spent the entire meal talking about some or other departmental gossip, while Millie had attempted to convince me to join various womens’ groups at the local community centre. 

“Eton Mess.” Frank answered, and I hastily added, “A cheerful term for a failed pavlova.”

I really _had_ intended for it to be a pavlova, but I had been utterly distracted all evening and broken the meringue right as I was about to serve it. 

“Well, it’s damn delicious, whatever you call it. Maybe you can give Millie the recipe.”

I smiled and nodded. I seemed to be leaving my mind at work more and more frequently, and felt as though my time at home was only spent worrying, and waiting to clock back in. 

“Stop it!” Millie’s sudden gasp and playful slap of her husband’s arm pulled me back to reality, and I forced myself to return Frank’s slight smile when the couple leaned into a lingering kiss across from us. 

Jerry grinned sheepishly as they broke apart, turning to me and trying to distract from their displays of affection. “So Claire, Frank tells us you’re studying to be a doctor?”

“I am, yes.” I nodded, “I’ll be a surgeon, hopefully.”

“A surgeon! Are you at Boston City, then?”

“No, Danvers State, actually.” 

Jerry’s eyebrows raised slightly at that, and he leaned forward in his chair. “Isn’t Danvers the _funny farm_ ?” He turned to Frank, “And you’re fine with her being surrounded by _loonies_ every day?” He was grinning, but it wasn’t a big enough mask to cover his insensitivity. 

“More like surrounded by _inverts_. Claire, here, is fixing them. Aren’t you, darling?” Frank’s snide phrasing was unexpected. 

He had never seemed to show much interest; I didn’t know he had actually been _listening_ to me at all. Apparently inebriation was all it took for his true dislike towards my current work placement to seep through the cracks. I swallowed my wine, readied myself to answer, but Jerry spoke first.

“Leave them all in there! It’s the best and _only_ place for them.” He leaned closer to Millie and rested a hand protectively on her slightly swollen belly, “I won’t have pedophiles running amuck and corrupting our child.”

“Well actually, they aren’t pedophiles. At least, not the ones I treat. And the therapies are really rather harsh. It’s not at all pleasant to see-” 

“They’re not meant to be pleasant though, are they? Yes, the treatments are quite harsh, but I say there’s always room for more.” Frank was nodding solemnly as he spoke, but I hoped he could feel the daggers I was staring at him. He stood, suddenly, lifting his bowl and mine from the table. 

“Uh, would anyone like more?” The guests both agreed enthusiastically, and Frank took their bowls too and headed into the kitchen.

“Do you mind if we kill a bottle?” Jerry asked, poised to pour the last of the wine into his glass.

“It’s all yours. I’ll go get another.” I nodded and stood, taking the empty bottle from him and making my own way to the kitchen. Frank had his back to me when I entered. He stood at the counter, dishing out a second round of dessert. 

“Would it kill you to take my side, Frank?” 

He didn’t turn around, but he stopped dishing up, lowering the serving spoon til his fist rested on the countertop. “Why should I have to? I don’t disagree with Jerry. Besides, I need to stay in his good books-”

“I’m your _wife._ You don’t need to stay in _mine_ ? _”_ The words felt bitter on my tongue, metallic, as though I were a child licking the blade of a pencil sharpener. “Do you have any idea how horribly those patients are _tortured_ there? The things I have to stand by and watch?”

“Nobody is forcing you to, Claire.” He finally turned, leaned sideways against the counter, but still did not meet my eyes.

“Oh, so that’s it, then? You’re going to tell me you don’t want me working at all? I’m just meant to stay at home, _barefoot in the kitchen_?”

“Yes, actually. I think this ‘doctor’ business is only perpetuating your wild imagination.” He _did_ meet my eyes, then. There was something spiteful and arrogant behind them, spilling out of him in a way I did not like at all. “Why not stay home and make a difference where it counts, instead of trying to save the unsaveable?”

“ _Frank!_ ” He stared at me a second longer before turning again and continuing with the dessert. I felt my eyes begin to prickle, my blood begin to boil. “I’m going to bed. You can tell _Jerry_ I feel _sick_.” 

I turned, walked quickly out of the kitchen and down the hall, closing our bedroom door behind me when I entered.

* * *

I woke early, rolling my eyes at both Frank and the Apostle Paul as I stretched my limbs in bed - I _had_ let the sun set on my wrath. Though the night had allowed the bitterness to fade, I still held sharp resentment on the tip of my tongue. I gathered my things, deciding to ready myself for work in the living room, eager to get out of the house before Frank woke. The last thing I wanted was for him to try to talk about the night before. 

I made it to work an hour early, my mind and body eager for something, anything, to keep me occupied. _Boy, did I find it._ It was only 0500 and the place was already a madhouse- _well._ My brisk walk, as I had stepped out of the elevator, had turned to a nonplussed jog. And then I was running, my nylon stockings causing my shoes to slip from my heels. 

I passed the rec room and turned down the corridor of bedrooms, guided by the sound of screaming that was decidedly _non-Barbara_. The night shift charge nurse was just ahead of me, rushing into John’s bedroom at the far end of the hall, pushing the medication cart in front of her. 

“Wait!” I called after her. My voice was sandpaper in the back of my throat, my mouth had gone dry from fear. “Let me assess him first.” 

She turned and looked at me as though I had three heads. _Anyone_ capable of hearing could assess that John was in a dangerous state of distress. His voice was strained in a desperate stream of indistinguishable but gut-wrenching pleas. 

As I arrived at the bedroom door, I could see John laying in bed, screaming, with his eyes squeezed shut. A nun stood beside him, her hand on his forehead, her own head bowed in prayer. A muscular male orderly had a firm grip on John’s wrists, pinning them down to stop from thrashing, and another two nurses held his legs down with difficulty as he strained against them. I slipped around the charge-nurse, grabbing John’s chart from the night-shift orderly.

Flipping through the pages I found a note regarding night terrors. While Siobhan had responded beautifully to having her sedatives replaced with placebos, apparently John had been struggling, regressing. I had noticed it earlier in the week the way he seemed to be holding back, as though his mind was desperately clinging to the last of the sedatives, not really _wanting_ to be lucid. Whatever it was, I needed to get him alone before they sedated him again. 

“There are far too many people in here stimulating the boy.” I spoke firmly, resorting to my head-matron voice just in time as I turned to the charge nurse. Speaking to her nurse-to-nurse, despite my physician's coat, seemed like the only way to get through to her, and this time she _did_ see the three heads of Cerberus. I left her no chance to respond before I turned to orchestrate the miserable display at the bedside.

“Out. Out, all of you. Off of him, now!” I barked at the leg wrestlers, then turned to the nun. “Sister, thank you for blessing this child. He's very strong, and you must be tired. Please, rest.” _Out._ John was still screaming but he started to calm, breathing deeply and whimpering, as the many hands left his body. 

The orderly’s grip loosened, once it became more obvious that John wouldn’t buck up and fight, but he maintained his stance, his body weight keeping John in a safe position for us all. We exchanged a nod of understanding, and I got a better look at his name badge, before turning to the charge nurse.

“Ulysses and I will do just fine from here, and he should be done before the end of the night shift; I know it’s nearing.” Her lips became a tightrope between her cheeks but finally she turned on her heels and left the room. 

We stood quietly, letting John cry out until the tension left his body. He stopped shaking under the weight of the man’s hands and I thought it would be over, but his deep breaths suddenly transformed into hyperventilations as he revved the engine to send himself into another attack. I stood over him speaking in a steady, monotone voice.

“John William Grey, breathe in with me _\- 2, 3, 4 -_ right. Now, breathe out _\- 3, 2, 1_.” He opened his pale eyes, pupils wildly dilated, and we went through this exercise of inhaling and exhaling until he found himself again in the steady rhythm. When we felt he was no longer a physical threat to himself or anyone else, Ulysses sat him up at the edge of the bed and handed him a cup of water from the desk.

“Thank you, sir. And thank you, Dr. Randall. I- I apologise,” John said at last, sheepishly, hiding his eyes behind the paper cup as he took another sip. I gave Ulysses my most grateful hand shake as he left the room, making sure my eyes conveyed to him that I felt safe, and he could leave John and me alone. Then, turning my attention back to my patient, I made the wooden chair at John’s desk my impromptu interview seat.

“Have you been dreaming about the war, John? About Hector?” Now that the adrenaline had passed, my heart was breaking for him. I focused hard, to listen to him in the present, but echoing in the halls of my mind were the blood-curdling screams of a young man reliving the death of his forbidden first love, in a war he didn’t even belong in.

“Yes, I...I have,” He placed his cup on the desk beside his bed, his furrowed brow a frame for his dark, sunken eyes. “I’ve been having brief episodes during the day, but nothing quite like this.”

He dipped his head, stared down at his hands in his lap. “I know the placebos have been working, allowing us to be more _ourselves_ but, Claire, this is a part of me that I truly don’t want to be. I… I’m so sorry!” He crumpled in on himself like a ball of discarded paper, his head resting between his knees and his hands covering his head as he wept, shielding himself from the invisible threats of the truth. 

Jamie appeared at the door, summoned by the sounds of her friend in need. The fighting incident had obviously made her more cautious about rushing in at the first sign of commotion, but she seemed to have trusted me to handle the situation until she felt it was safe to enter.

“How are ye now, man?” John nodded mindlessly in response to her question, and Siobhan sighed, “If ye canna speak to me just yet, would it help if I fetched Percy for ye, John?”

I turned quickly to face her, my own eyes wide enough for her to peer into my mind and read my thoughts. 

“Aye, Sassenach. I ken it sounds like a daft thing tae put two men together, in a place like this, but I also ken talkin’ tae Percy will help.” Her frustration was palpable in the way she folded and unfolded her arms while she spoke, finally sighing as she combed her fingers through her hair. “Trust me, I’m no’ asking for yer help, I can make it happen on my own.”

“If anyone finds them…” I started to protest, but saw John nod again, his head no longer in his lap, but his eyes still fixed to the floor.

“It’s risky, aye, but look at the man, Claire! Naked and alone, wi’ no more than a blade of grass tae protect him from the storm!” Jamie waved a hand in his direction, and I looked back to where John sat at the edge of the bed, a blanket draped over his shoulders, a pitiful version of the soldier I’d gotten to know. She was right.

“If there’s anyone who has walked a similar footpath through hell, it’s Percy. They’ve just no’ had the chance to converge and navigate it together.” I knew she was right - John needed to _talk_ , to let it out, not _just_ be re-medicated. My mind was racing, searching for some kind of solution. She gave me one last look of concern, her eyes pleading, before turning on her heels and leaving the room. 

I stood up, gave John an endearing pat on the shoulder, and followed her out. The corridor had started to fill with patients as they began to make their way to receive their morning medications and breakfast. 

“Siobhan,” I spoke aloud as I caught up to her and then, as we walked together toward the nurses’ station, I added quietly, “Jamie, you know I want to make a difference here. You know I want to help John. But we need to be careful. I have a plan.” She gave a slight nod, her eyebrow raised in silent curiosity.

“After lunch, during freetime. Tell John, and Percy, to meet us at the back entrance to the old chapel, near the library.” A beam had split and fallen in during a baptism - or an exorcism, if Geillis’ gossip were to be believed - meaning that the original south-end chapel had been closed for repair. I had noticed that both the chapel and the equally-eerie library, as well as the adjoining corridor, seemed to be deserted during the day. Siobhan nodded again, hopefully comprehending, before she stepped into the line at the dispensary. 

I wasn’t familiar with the nurse in charge of doling out meds this morning, but I was glad it wasn’t Geillis. I couldn’t risk being interrupted as I entered the dispensary and headed straight between the shelves in search of Doc. After John’s episode that morning, and the ones he mentioned he’d been having during the day as well, I had a sneaking suspicion that his _sedatives_ were not the only pills Doc had been replacing with placebos. 

* * *

Jamie and I had walked undetected from the rec room, past the nurses’ station and waiting rooms, and through the maze of south corridors before finally arriving at the library. There were two nuns at desks, their heads bowed in study rather than prayer, and a librarian busying herself with a cart of books. It was essentially empty, even at midday; a shame for such a richly-stocked library, but a blessing for our present purpose. 

My finger tips grazed the spines of dusty leatherbacks as I led Jamie through the isles, collecting John near the encyclopaedias, and then through to the side exit of the library that led to the back of the old chapel where Percy stood, nervously awaiting our arrival. The chapel door creaked in the most expected way, like any centuries-old hinges would, but _still_ we all inhaled sharply, freezing in place for a moment before slipping inside. 

Jamie peeled back the protective sheet from a pew near the high altar, shaking off the sawdust from the construction material around us. She beckoned to John and Percy, who hadn’t made eye contact with one another at all since arriving at the chapel, and they walked forward, sliding into the pew. 

I listened as she pointed out to the two young men the similarities of their experiences, and how the weight of such a burden could be lightened if shared between them. Then, when she felt they were comfortable to be left alone, she stepped away. 

We walked together up the aisle toward the back of the chapel where she pulled back another sheet and motioned for me to sit beside her on the dusty pew; the votive candles of the bye-altar an unlikely backdrop for the clandestine rendezvous of three patients and their student-physician. 

Jamie and I drifted through various topics of conversation as we sat side-by-side, just as we did whenever we walked in the gardens, but in the relative silence of the chapel, she seemed drawn towards themes of religion and spirituality. She spoke with an obvious pride and comfort that matched her familiarity with such a place. She was awed by my textbook knowledge of _The Word_ juxtaposed with vague intrapersonal connection to it. I could see that these things were important to her, and began to understand why she struggled with who she was, who she loved. It hurt me that it was a dichotomy for her.

“Are ye listening, Sassenach?” She chirped, pulling me bodily from my wandering train of thoughts.

I nodded, then looked up at her. “You called me that earlier, but there was too much going on to ask what it meant.”

“Are ye asking me now?” A rust colored eyebrow arched as she glanced down her nose at me, sporting a swagger in the curl of her smile that forced all blood to my face. _God, is she… flirting_ with me? _Boundaries, Beauchamp._

“It’s enough that I let you call me ‘Claire’, I can’t have you cursing me in Gaelic too, _Siobhan_.” I teased, jabbing my shoulder into hers.

“Och, it just means ‘outlander’. Yer an English lass, so historically ye dinna belong among us Scots; it isna usually meant in a pleasant way, but I call ye that mostly because yer no like anyone here. You treat us with respect, ye talk to us as humans, and for that yer _quite_ the outlander at Danvers.”

She turned fully to me, stirring the sheets ever so slightly, sending a fine layer of dust into the light that barely graced the room. Her eyes met mine, and suddenly my world was spinning around me; time suspended in the air like the particles of dust that danced an intricate ballet around us. 

Her hand reached my cheek, and I found my own mirroring her actions, my breath catching in my throat. The space between us grew less, our noses meeting gently as I explored her face with mine, breathing in her features, her nuances, her natural redolence. 

I knew Jamie’s scent couldn’t fully be _hers_ because it belonged to Danvers, to the detergents, to the plumes of cigarette smoke that filled the rec room; but the gardens had left their mark on her hands in a way that made me long for the scent of her happy place; to smell Lallybroch, her home, on her skin.

Somehow I managed to hear her amid the amplitude of my own heart beat as she whispered, her breath warm against my lips, “I would… I would verra much like to kiss ye, Claire. May I?”

I didn’t know who I was anymore, but I knew exactly what I wanted as I tucked my fingers into the silky, crimson curls I’d longed to touch. I nodded, slightly but definitely, and felt the warmth of her tender grip at the base of my neck. She wet her lips for me, parting them for my own tongue to take over, drawing me in to close the last fraction of space between us--

“Mary, Mother, and Bride, Claire! Orgies in the chapel?” Geillie’s witch-like cackle rang through the room like an alarm following the screech of the door she had swung open. We all jumped to our feet reflexively, frozen in place; all unbreathing save the one gasp we shared. 

_Excuseless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Siobhan quotes from is 'Forget-Me-Not' by William Topaz McGonagall, and can be found [HERE](https://melodicverses.com/poems/40274/Forget-Me-Not)  
> I highly recommend reading it!
> 
> A HUGE thank you to our dear friends and wonderful Betas [Michaela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciouslittleingenue/pseuds/preciouslittleingenue) and [Lis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the2ofusnow/pseuds/the2ofusnow) (who was kind enough to step in this week <3)  
> (And of course, HUGE thank you to our usual beta, [Bethie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisPrest/pseuds/JeSuisPrest), for being super supportive as always!!) We could not do this without any of you.


	7. Between Fear and Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Frank felt like shoes that never quite fit, that I’d worn so long that I’d forgotten they weren’t the right size. But Jamie felt familiar, as if I was rediscovering a part of me I had somehow misplaced..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to [preciouslittleingenue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciouslittleingenue/pseuds/preciouslittleingenue) ~ We hope you enjoy this belated birthday gift! Thank you for being an amazing friend and wonderful Beta 💗 Sorry for keeping this one a secret from you 😉 but we know you'll love the surprises that await! We love you lots 💗

[ ](https://ibb.co/NZjCp5B)

Geillis’ laughter echoed through the chapel, the sharp noise bouncing from bare wall to bare wall. I stared at her, my eyes wide, frozen in place. My breath caught in my throat, my blood ran cold through my veins, and Geillis’ cat-like, green eyes fixed on mine with hypnotic power that made time stand still. 

_ Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ _ . How was I going to explain  _ this _ to her? What had she seen? Enough to comprehend what I, what  _ we _ , had been doing? My mind was spinning until my surroundings came back into focus all at once, with shouts of commotion pulling my attention away from Geillis and towards the front of the chapel. 

“ _ NO! DON’T HURT HIM _ !” John’s panicked shouts replaced the laughter that had still been ringing in my ears as I ran up the aisle towards them. He was crouched between the pews, his arms stretched out, his body shielding a terrified Percy, who he had pinned to the floor. I approached with caution, knowing that anyone in such a state could lash out unknowingly. I tried desperately to find my voice, and to keep it calm.

“John? John, it’s ok.” I took a step closer, slowly. “It’s ok.”

“ _ STAY BACK!”  _ John swung around where he crouched, facing away from Percy but still vigilantly guarding the younger man. His eyes were wide, but his pupils remained unfocused even as he looked in my direction. __

_ “I won’t let you take him! I… I WON’T!”  _ He shook his head, shouting adamantly, but I stepped closer once more, crouching down when I reached the front pew just two feet away from him.

“John. Let Percy go, please; you’re frightening him.” I tried to reason with him, but even as I said it, I knew it was a fruitless attempt. He was not in his right mind; he’d been set off by the sudden noise and commotion of Geillis’ arrival. 

“Look at me, man.” Jamie had appeared at my side, crouching like a mirror beside me, arms stretched out toward her friend. “ _ Look at me _ , Grey. It’ll all be alright.” John didn’t look up at her, but his erratic, shallow breathing grew deeper. I reached out, trying to get to Percy, but John began shouting again, the arm nearest to me swiping the air in an attempt to keep me at bay.

Geillis stepped forward, almost pushing me aside in the process. “There’s only one thing fer him now, Claire,” she took an emergency syringe and vial from her pocket, filling the syringe with swift efficiency. Her timing was perfect as she moved forward, sticking the needle into John’s arm just as he’d swung it towards her. 

For a moment John’s shouts of protest became louder, but he soon fell silent. As his body slackened I reached forward, too, and bore some of his weight, lowering him onto the ground safely.

The ancient chapel door creaked loudly, and I turned to see that the two nuns from the library and a male orderly, obviously having heard the commotion, had come to see what the hell was going on. 

“Good, ye can help,” Geillis stood and beckoned the three confused newcomers. “You, fetch a gurney at once.” One of the nuns nodded and rushed from the room. “And you, run quick as ye can tae Dr. Saint-Germain. Tell him I sent ye, and that Captain Grey will be needing his therapy immediately.”

“His therapy? What therapy?” I had seen no therapy on the schedule for John at all until art therapy later in the evening, and I couldn’t fathom any reason  _ that _ would do him any good in his current state.

“Matthews, take these two back to their rooms.” Geillis called to the orderly, ignoring my questions. The man rushed towards us, helping Percy to his feet and leading him and Siobhan out the same way he had entered. “Help me get Captain Grey ready, Claire. Quick about it! And dinna waste yer breath, there’s no use in arguin’ wi’ me.” 

We got John lying flat on his back, his arms crossed over his chest, ready to be lifted. The first nun reentered with a gurney and a different orderly, and together we hoisted John’s limp body up onto it before wheeling him down the aisle and through the main door of the chapel. We were out into the familiar corridors before I spoke again.

“Geillie, where are we taking him?” I asked, glancing down at John’s slackened face, his head lolling from side to side with the movement of the gurney. I kept one hand on the side of the gurney, but my other went to his wrist, checking his pulse and then gently squeezing his hand in a silent reassurance.

“Electroshock,” Geillis said sharply, “I’ve had it pulled forward; it was booked for tomorrow, but with the state he’s in  _ now… _ ”

My eyes shot up to her. “Electro-- Geillis! You can’t  _ possibly _ !” I felt my airways constrict in panic and my heart felt as though it had fallen through the floor; I could not,  _ would not _ , watch John go through that.

“Dinna argue wi’ me,  _ Doctor Randall _ . This man needs treatment right away.” Though I had heard her speak like this to others, she had never used that tone on me before, and I was rather taken aback by it.

“Geillis, I-” It was too late. The foot of the gurney hit double doors and then we were in the treatment room, surrounded by machinery and staff. My heart raced, my mind spun, trying to think of something,  _ anything _ , to say to put an end to this nightmare before it even began, but I was lost for words. 

I felt the weight of my conscience, my guilt, bearing down on me, but I knew I had to stay there at John’s side. I squeezed his hand tightly as I stood beside the therapy table, forcing myself to let go as the first waves of electricity wracked through his body. 

_ I’m sorry, John, I’m so sorry,  _ my useless apologies played on a loop,  _ John, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. _ All I could do was fix my eyes on the clock and take his hand again between each wave of shocks, squeeze it tight, and repent.  _ I’m so sorry, John. It’s all my fault.  _

The moment it was over I excused myself, walked swiftly through the double doors and into the corridor. I could feel my eyes beginning to prickle with distress, could feel the blood burning my face, but I could do nothing for it; Geillis had followed me out.

She took me by the elbow and dragged me down the corridor without a word or even meeting my eyes, only turning to look at me once she had led me into an empty room and shut the door behind us. I tore my arm free and stood up straight, ready for battle.

“Right. Are ye going tae tell me what on God’s green earth ye were  _ doing _ , Claire? Or do I have tae drag it out o’ ye by force?” She folded her arms and peered at me, waiting for a response. I met her green eyes, my mind suddenly a wordless void, my mouth opened but no answer came to me before she spoke again. “And do ye realize how lucky ye are that it was  _ me _ who found ye, and not one of the  _ less fergiving _ nurses?”

My eyes widened in visible horror. “Geillis, please, it wasn’t what it looked like. Whatever it is you  _ think _ you saw-- you can’t tell anyone,  _ please _ , Geillie.”

“Oh, fer cryin’ out loud!” She gave a short exhale of a laugh. “What  _ were _ ye thinking _ , _ going tae the bloody church alone with  _ three  _ bloody patients?”

“I… I just wanted to help. I never meant to cause any harm…” I rubbed a hand over my face and through the tangle of curls that had escaped their pins during the chaos. “I just thought, with Captain Grey and Mr. Wainwright having a similar experience with the war, I thought maybe they could talk, could help each other...”

“Och, aye? And jest what do ye think the  _ group therapy _ is for, then?”

I stared at her, once again unable to formulate an adequate answer. What was I meant to say? That the two young men had found comfort with each other before, and that I had been attempting to facilitate exactly the type of behaviour their therapies were trying to realign? 

“I just thought they might benefit in talking about their mutual experiences, Geillis, as  _ friends _ . To  _ avoid _ treatments like the one you just put him through. I don’t think-”

“Aye!” Geillis interrupted, her hands going to her hips, giving her head a slight shake. “Aye, that’s the problem; ye dinna  _ think _ . All that time ye’ve been sittin’ wi’ yer books, I’ve been here, _ living this _ , workin’ wi’ these people, Claire.”

I could feel my face burning once more, and I knew she would be able to see the annoyance in my eyes. “And would you have helped me, if I’d asked?”

It was her turn to remain silent, her lips pressed together in a thin, white line. I felt my legs begin to tremble, and reached for a chair.  _ Delayed shock _ , I thought. I knew the symptoms well and forced myself to take several deep breaths as I sat, resisting the urge to rest my head between my knees as I would have had a patient do to combat the fading shield of adrenaline. Finally, Geillis spoke again, breaking the silence.

“Doctor Saint-Germain will want tae know what happened, of course.”

I frowned, readying myself to argue my point once more, but she held up a hand and continued. “Now, I dinna think he needs tae know  _ where _ it happened, jest the important details o’ the patient’s explosive episode.” She eyed me thoughtfully for a moment and then added, “And he need no’ know who else was wi’ him. Perhaps he bumped into Percival in the corridor and had a wee skirmish. They do have a history, as ye say.”

I nodded in agreement, “I guess I’ll go find him at once then.”

“Nae bother, I’m headed that way meself. Ye go wash yer face, Claire, and then go home,” she said, giving my shoulder a squeeze before opening the door and stepping out into the hall. I sat alone in the silence of the empty visitation room for a minute more, with my thundering heart and restless thoughts, before I finally stood. There was one thing I needed to do before I left.

* * *

It didn’t feel as though I had desperately charged down this hall at dawn. It couldn’t possibly have all happened in the same day, but it had. I made my way slowly this time, my fretting fingertips performing a ghostly ballet on the dusty handrail of the corridor wall, before I arrived at Percival’s bedroom. Peering through the partly opened door, I could see him sleeping in his bed; a flushed face streaked with the dried salt of long gone tears. 

During his episode in the chapel, John had seemed to be trying to protect Percy but, when I thought about it, I realized he had said ‘him’ and not called the younger man by name at all. Perhaps it was not Percy he sought to protect, but  _ Hector?  _ Siobhan and I had asked Percy to meet with John out of solidarity, to walk a path towards healing alongside John; instead he had found himself reduced to a silently weeping child, squirming under the full weight of a man he trusted, and called friend. 

I could only imagine the effect it must have had on him, how it surely  _ added _ to his trauma rather than lessen it. I swallowed thickly and turned from his room, remembering the images of male bodies he had been made to watch for behavioral aversion therapy, and the visceral response they forced. I wished I had never tried to intervene. 

I continued down the corridor, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead and avoidant as I passed John’s room. To incline my heart in that direction, to allow myself to check in on him, would only serve to remind me of my own shortcomings, and what I’d put him through with my carelessness - he had needed me there as a lookout, not to become so absorbed in Jamie that I’d be blind to everything else around me.

I stopped at Siobhan’s door and hesitated. It was left ajar, as Percy’s had been; the thumb sized gap in the doorway was as much privacy any patient was allowed in a place like this, despite the glass windows built into the doors and the fact that the knobs didn’t lock. I wrestled with myself for a moment over whether or not to knock, before settling on a medium two-tap rap at the door, letting it swing open on the second knock.  _ I’m her physician; I’m allowed to follow up, after all. _

She sat at her desk with her back to me; her hair was pulled back sloppily into a plait that flowed like a river of running lava down her back, crimson flyaways floating free as embers from her temples. Her chin was raised to the window above her desk, eyes turned to the evening sky and all anxious thoughts seemed to be channeled into the tapping fingers of her right hand that rested on the desk. I stood at the door, silently watching her in her momentary bliss before I cleared my throat to alert her to my presence. As she turned towards me, however, all her tranquility fell away, and she stiffened awkwardly as she stood.

“I came to see how you’re doing, Jamie, and to update you on John.” I spoke gently from my place at the doorway, “He’s in recovery, but he will be alright.” I felt like an awkward teenager, unsure of how to act after what had,  _ or hadn't, _ been shared between Jamie and me in the chapel. She could not meet my eyes either, though she motioned to the chair in a silent offer. I shook my head. 

In truth I was exhausted; I had spent all morning in John’s bedroom when he had suffered through his night terrors, all afternoon with Jamie and the boys in conspiratorial places, and all evening arguing with my best friend over issues far deeper than John’s disposition. But I couldn’t bring myself to sit, to be alone with her in a closed room; somehow the intimacy of the chapel had made me acutely aware of how things had changed between us. I kept my distance and my professionalism as well as I could, to keep my face from falling to my hands and my tears from staining my blouse.

“I’m so sorry, Claire,” Siobhan spoke finally, and as my eyes flicked up they met hers for just a moment. “I shouldna have... I never meant tae make things awkward between us, but... I’ve obviously ruined the friendship.” 

She took a deep breath, poised to continue her ramble of apologies, when she suddenly stopped. She cocked her head to the side as she eyed me down her perfectly sculpted nose, and then she softened once more. 

“Ye do realize it’s no’  _ yer _ fault, Sassenach?” 

And, with that, all stores of mettle and grit that kept me upright were depleted. My back met the door frame, my face met my palms, and every tear I’d held onto during the last twelve hours raced free from my grasp. I couldn’t see her but heard as she made her way across the room to me. With limbs long and graceful, she moved quickly but carefully to close the bedroom door, and pull me into her arms. Her embrace broke down the last of my defences; I simply and shamelessly wept, choking back sobs as I finally spoke aloud what had been on my mind.

“It  _ is _ my fault, Jamie, it... _ is.”  _ My tears rolled down my chin as I blinked. “It was  _ my _ bloody...idea to meet there, my…my job to keep watch.” She held me tighter, her hand rubbing my back as I sobbed.

When my breathing finally slowed I expected her to pull me away to talk, but she kept me close, walking me slowly in a tight embrace to the center of her bedroom where she released one of her arms to reach for the chair at her desk. In one swift move she spun the wooden chair around, sat herself down, and pulled me bodily onto her lap. I submitted, resting my head on her shoulder and finding comfort in her warmth, in her slight rocking motion, and in the quiet, melodic Gaelic she whispered into my disheveled hair.

I had few memories of being held like this, being only five when my parents had passed, but as Jamie rested her head against mine, cradling me, I couldn’t help wondering whether my mother had ever done so. The thought filled me with a small flame of warmth, enough to ignite my lips into a slight hint of a smile. When I finally sat up to face her, breaking the brief trance of my reverie, I felt both idiotic and immeasurably better. 

“Erm... Thank you, Jamie,” I said as I stood from her lap and turned to face her. I couldn’t help but think back to that time  _ she _ had cried in  _ my  _ arms while she sat in my interview office. The cuckoo’s nest seemed big enough for the two of us today. 

She stood up to meet me then, her hands cupping my puffy face in the most awkwardly gentle way as she wiped the last of the tears away, then swooped a thumb right under my nose where it had just begun to run. I was all at once mortified, instantly blushing and felt my heart melt at the simple, endearing gesture.

“Yer no verra sensible, Sassenach, but I like ye fine,” Jamie joked as she wiped my snot on her tear-dampened blouse. The breath I’d been holding in since she’d grabbed my face escaped in a riot of laughter, and she joined with a roaring laugh of her own, head cocked back in the same manner as it had when John had made her laugh on their mock-date. 

I was exhausted and overwhelmed with emotions; exhaustion; anger at myself, guilt at having hurt John and Percy, frustration at Geilis for her obvious resentment, annoyance at Frank for never quite  _ seeing _ me, but mostly relief and gratitude towards Jamie for just  _ being.  _

My shift had ended, and I had already spent far too long in her room, but I couldn’t leave just yet. I had to let her know for certain that she hadn’t ruined anything at all. In the dim lighting of the chapel, I hadn’t had the chance to really see the soft tulip-petals of her mouth up close, but standing so close to her, and with new emotions taking over, her lips were all I could see. 

I reached my hands out to take hers then slowly grazed them up the length of her arms, allowing one to rest comfortably at the base of her neck. Then I pulled her gently down to meet my mouth in one last sharp inhale of breath. I closed my eyes and latched onto her soft, smooth lower lip, feeling her relax into me. She cupped my cheek again, her thumb stroking slowly, but there were no more tears to wipe away. Instead she pressed her lips to mine, inviting me to just  _ be _ and continue  _ being _ \- with her smiling fondly against my lips. 

I only let go to say four words before I left.

“I like you, too.” 

* * *

I got to work the next morning feeling lighter; my decision to go home and straight to bed the night before had been a good one, and I’d woken with the strange sense of calm that came in the aftermath of a good cry and a good sleep.

I knew things at the hospital were still a mess, though. John’s treatment plan was in question, and he would be reevaluated in the afternoon. Percy would probably need extra therapy after the trauma in the chapel, and I needed to find out whether Geillis’ explanation to Dr. Saint-Germain had gone over well. But first, with a fluttery feeling in my stomach, I stepped out into the gardens for my regular daily walk with Jamie.

She smiled when she saw me, with her lopsided grin that had become such a familiar part of her, and took her place alongside me. We walked along the paths with quiet introspection, in a comfortable silence; we moved in tandem, with the perfect synchronicity of some ancient ritual dance. 

I was somehow simultaneously oblivious of my surroundings and acutely aware of Jamie’s proximity to me, feeling her presence beside me like the soft, constant heat of a simmering campfire. I felt the ghost of a touch as her hand brushed past mine while we walked. I didn’t know whether it had been an intentional touch or not, but a moment later I felt it again, and that time it  _ was _ intentional; her hand swept against mine slowly, her little finger finding mine and curling around it. 

I felt my cheeks flush and attempted to stifle the smile I could feel forming, wrapping my finger around hers in a mirrored response and giving it a faint squeeze of silent acknowledgement -  _ I’m here _ .  _ I feel you.  _ It was such a simple thing, a small gesture, but it made my heart flitter like the wings of a songbird in the cage of my chest, begging to fly.

I tried to remember a time I had ever felt this way with Frank, this strange mixture of awkward discovery and comfortable familiarity, the juxtaposition between the shyness of realizing one’s own feelings and the boldness of  _ knowing _ they are reciprocated; I was shocked to realize I could find little comparison. 

From the beginning of my relationship with Frank, it had felt completely different. I was young when we met, and not much older when we married. I had never been in love, though I had been with men before him, but I’d been swept up in being wanted. Yet, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this intimacy, this closeness I felt with Jamie, I had  _ never _ felt with Frank. Even before the war, before our lives had been turned upside down and then been forced to return to some semblance of normal, long before I had enrolled in medical school, Frank and I had been two separate entities. 

But Jamie was different. Jamie and I had built trust, built  _ friendship _ . She felt like someone I had always known, deep down, someone I had been drawn to long before I had first caught a glimpse of the fiery-red tendrils or deep, indigo pools. Frank felt like shoes that never quite fit, that I’d worn so long that I’d forgotten they weren’t the right size. But Jamie felt familiar, as if I was rediscovering a part of me I had somehow misplaced, like long-lost twins pulled towards each other by the threads that intrinsically connected them.

The familiar soul in question gave my little finger a sudden tug with her own as we reached a turn in the path. I obeyed her wordless beckoning, following her as she pulled us from the path and behind an outcrop of bushes nearing the corner of the building.

She wrapped one arm fully around my waist and hoisted me up to the tips of my toes, her hair like fire raining down on me as she leaned in. Everything about our first kiss had said ‘ _you’re not alone, everything is going to be ok’_ in the most pathetically charming way _;_ it had been truly freeing to laugh and cry in her arms. But everything about this _second_ kiss screamed sexual tension in a way I readily welcomed but had not been expecting, and didn’t quite yet know how to navigate. _Well, you’ve kissed more people than Frank before, Beauchamp._

When Jamie kissed me I could sense a desperation that matched my own, but still she took her time. The brief moment felt so much longer as she licked her lips and then brought her tongue ever so slowly along mine, too.  _ She licked my own lips for me,  _ my head spun with the mere thought of it, and I shivered to think that it might only be the beginning.

I kissed her back deeply, fervently, knowing we’d have to return to the path, but not wanting to let her go just yet. I felt her hands trailing down my body; my eyes shot open, surprised at my own desire for  _ more, _ and I caught her watching me intently. Her pupils were almost too wide to see the blue; she was studying me, focused on my expression,  _ on pleasing me? _ I couldn’t help but grin against her lips before sealing the kiss with a peck and pulling her back to the path before our disappearance could be noticed.

With her hand in mine, for the mere second that it took to jokingly tug her toward the direction of our walk again, I was made acutely aware of the gold band Frank had given me along with his vows 10 years prior. Frank and I had had our fair share of issues long before I had met Jamie, but I had been trying  _ not _ to think of what the implications of an extramarital affair -  _ with a woman, no less _ \- might have on my marriage. 

How could I keep him from my mind, though, while the very symbol of my commitment was pressed so tightly into my bones where Jamie's fingers squeezed my own? It had been easy, before, to separate work and home, to keep my marriage tucked away while I did my job. But things had escalated, become  _ real _ , the moment my lips had touched Jamie’s; it was the moment the metaphoric line in the sand had been crossed. My feelings, which I had been trying to brush under the rug, had become undeniable within me, in that moment. 

I didn’t know what this, whatever  _ this _ was, would mean for my marriage; whether I would, or  _ could, _ admit these things to Frank was another matter entirely. And keeping  _ this _ confined to Danvers’ shadows wouldn’t be fair on Jamie, either. But, for the moment, all I could do was accept the uncertainty, and relish in my morning bliss.

“What was  _ that _ for?” I laughed, making a comedic effort to walk drunkenly beside her. 

“The kiss? Just a wee ‘thank ye’ for yesterday, or a ‘good mornin, ye look bonnie today’, or there was a bee on yer face and it was the only way tae save ye. Ye’ll never know.” She attempted to wink in the most unbelievably adorable way for a full-grown woman, like an intoxicated owl awakened from a nap. Before I could even chaff her for it she wisely changed the subject.

“Do ye ever recall yer dreams, Sassenach?”

“Hmm,” I thought about it for a second. “That’s quite the non sequitur. Why do you ask?”

“Weel, it’s only… I had a dream about ye last night,” she replied, her sheepish expression half hidden behind amber curls the wind had suddenly folded across her face. 

“Oh?” I grinned, grateful for the way Jamie could so easily pull me from the confines of my own mind. 

“Aye. It was back home, at Lallybroch, ye ken. I think it was in the autumn; the fields were green from the rain, and the trees were these bursts of yellow, red and gold. Ye were there wi’ yer brown curls all around ye, drifting on the breeze.  _ Mo nighean donn. _ ” She looked at me and smiled; her lips curling at the Gaelic expression,  _ whatever it meant,  _ before she continued.

“Ye ken how in a dream ye just know a place is yours, or what it should be, even when ye’ve never been there or when it seems different from what yer used to?”

I nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. Dreams had a funny way of making seemingly random places feel intrinsically familiar. Almost always in dreams, I found, even the most obscure things seemed logical.

She saw my nod, and continued, “Aye, weel, that’s exactly what the home in Lallybroch felt like. It wasna the home I grew up in, but I knew it was mine... and with ye there beside me, I suppose it was  _ ours _ . Oh, Claire, and there were bairns! A braw lad wi’ brown curls like yer’s, cantering around in the field wi’ the horses while we watched him. And a bonnie wee lass wi’ my own fiery mop, stuck tae yer side and twisting in yer skirts. Dinna ask me how, Claire, they jest… They were ours too, somehow.” She trailed off as insecurity surfaced, shaking her head slightly and dismissing herself shyly, but I caught her eyes crinkling as she smiled wider than ever. 

Somehow I knew what she was thinking; this might not be a true vision of the future, but having those images to hold onto filled me with the hope that we could have  _ some  _ kind of future beyond this place after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thank you to our dear friends and wonderful Betas [Bethie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisPrest/pseuds/JeSuisPrest) and [Lis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the2ofusnow/pseuds/the2ofusnow) (who was kind enough to step in this week in order to keep this secret! <3)  
> (And of course, HUGE thank you to our usual beta, [Michaela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciouslittleingenue/pseuds/preciouslittleingenue) even though you had no idea about any of this hehe)  
> We could not do this without any of you.


	8. Best-Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I knelt down to his level, my other hand brushed a stray curl from his face. His bright blue eyes flicked up to meet mine.  
> "Of _course_ we wouldn't leave you here!"'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'd like to thank you all for your patience and kindness over the last couple of months - This chapter has been extremely delayed, but for good reasons :) Your patience with us is greatly appreciated, and if you showed up to read this long-awaited chapter you are amazing and we love you!
> 
> A huge Thank You to our Betas! We love you both SO MUCH for putting up with us <3

A crisp, late-fall wind snuck up on me, tugging at loose tendrils of my hair as I stepped out into the gardens of the paediatric ward. The large oak tree greeted me with its slow-waving branches, but the children were far more hasty with their introductions; their little hands patted and grabbed at my coat, clinging to me as though I had come to deliver them from evil. The orderly, who had been showing me around, swatted the children away gently before properly presenting me to his young patients.

“This is Doctor Randall, children. She will be assisting us for a while.”

I smiled down at their faces, nodding at each name the orderly gave me. _Robert, Anne, Johnny, Simon, Mary-_ Too many for me to remember right away, but I knew I would not be there long enough to _need_ to remember them. 

A boy with dark curly hair and bright blue eyes piped up from the back of the group. His slight accent caught my attention, “ _Pardón,_ Madame, but will you please play with us?” 

I glanced at the orderly, who looked at his wristwatch and shrugged his shoulders, before I nodded politely at the boy. “How about hide and seek?”

“ _Oui_ , Madame! You can count first!” He grinned and ran off, followed by a handful of the other paediatric patients, rushing to find hiding spots as I turned my back on them and began to count down from fifty.

 _Fifty_. Nearly fifty days since Jamie had told me her dream; nearly fifty days since I decided I would do anything in my power to set her free. 

_Forty-five, Forty-four, Forty-three…_ Nearly forty days since I had properly begun to lay out my plan; nearly forty days since I had taken Jamie, John, and Percy aside and filled them in, asked them to help me, and promised them they would be set free too. 

_Thirty-four, Thirty-three, Thirty-two…_ The plans had come together slowly, each detail requiring a night-shift rendezvous to scout out possible options. 

_Twenty-eight, Twenty-seven, Twenty-six…_ Twenty-five days since I'd decided to park further away from the hospital and walk the exterior of the property every morning. 

_Twenty-one, Twenty, Nineteen…_ Just over three weeks since we had started using our nightly meetings to practice and perfect the escape, finding the most efficient paths, the simplest routes through the maze of corridors, the least likely places for staff to be. 

_Fifteen, Fourteen, Thirteen, Twelve…_ A hiccup as Percy fell ill after his treatment, a setback as I was placed back onto day shifts. For two weeks I relied on them to practice on their own. 

_Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven…_ A week since I'd put in my appeal for additional shifts, waiting anxiously for approval, knowing that we needed all the time we could get in order to finalize plans. 

_Five, Four, Three…_ At the end of the week my request for extra day shifts had finally been approved, and the new week found me in the paediatric ward, counting down in a faux game of _hide and seek_. 

_Zero_ … I turned around, opened my eyes and smiled, calling out cheerily, “Ready or not, here I come!” I couldn’t remember when last I had played such games. Perhaps when I was a child I had played with the neighborhood children, but those times had passed. Now, any and all games were merely a pretense - a tool by which I could inconspicuously scout out the area. 

* * *

The hustle and bustle of the paediatric ward faded as the double doors shut behind me that evening. I took a breath and made my way towards the nurses’ station to clock in for my night shift. My first shift in the adjoining ward had proved fruitful in allowing me to properly examine the fence and tree which Percy had told me about, but it had also left me drained before my proper shift had even begun. Visibly so, apparently, because Geillis shook her head when she saw me.

“My _God_ , ye look _exhausted_ , Claire! We canna have ye working yerself to the bone; it’s nae good for the bairn, ye ken.”

“For the…” I stared at her, eyes wide. My surprise was so visceral that I almost laughed in her face. 

“Aye, and there’s no use denying it. Why else would ye be requesting extra shifts, and with _children_ , no less!”

“Geillie, I-” I didn’t know what to tell her, nor did I have a chance to explain before she ushered me around the counter and forced me to sit. She looked at me sternly as she handed me her coffee cup and urged me to sip, not waiting for me to swallow before talking again.

“Now, I trust ye ken what yer doing, Claire, but I beg ye not tae overwork yerself. It isna healthy fer you _or_ the wean.”

I simply nodded, stood, and handed her back her coffee cup, deciding that letting her think I was with child was a far better explanation than I could have come up with myself, anyway. Having her believe I was working towards maternity leave was far preferable than her thinking I was, in fact, working towards an escape. I clocked in and turned towards the dining room, ready to begin the night shift, when I heard Geillis behind me.

“ _Really_ didn’t think Frank had it in him!”

* * *

The second-hand ticked painfully slowly on my wrist as I urged it to pass the tiny XII. When midnight finally struck, I rounded the corner to the nurses’ station and watched as the night nurses went their separate ways to do their rounds. I checked my watch again, feeling the pounding of the blood in the vein it pressed against, and waited for them to return. Once they did, we would have only an hour before they checked on their patients again. 

One hour of very valuable time. 

I slipped back around the corner, walking swiftly along the corridor and turning left, heading straight for the interview room I so often used during the day. I slipped inside, closing my eyes and allowing them time to adjust to the darkness, not daring to turn on the light. A minute passed, another, and then a muted knock seeped into the silence. _John_ , _then Jamie._

Another half a minute and Percy entered, greeting us with a feeble smile and feeling around in the dark for a chair. John took his hand gently, leading him to one and allowing him to sit before sitting beside him and caressing his cheek gently. Even in the dark I could see Percy lean into John’s palm, his lips curling slightly. I knew Jamie saw it too, for she curled her hand around mine, between us, where we stood in the dark. She squeezed reassuringly, her forefinger tapping lightly against the back of my hand. 

There we stood, the four of us, congregating in the dark and allowing our eyes to adjust as minutes went by. I couldn’t quite make out the time on my watch, but I could sense the minutes passing by in silence. I turned my attention to Percy, sitting in the dark. 

“How are you feeling, Percy? I see you had more therapy this morning.” I spoke softly, gently. 

“No more terrible than usual,” he replied weakly. I could hear the strain in his voice, the rasp that came from a bile-burned throat after a full morning of vomiting.

My heart ached for him, for all of them, whenever they had to undergo more harmful and pointless therapies. The now-dozens of times I had been present at Percy’s aversion therapy never made it easier. Every time he gasped for breath between spluttering bile I had to turn my eyes away, turn my mind away, and stop myself from reaching for his clammy, white-knuckled hand. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you this time--”

Suddenly the door inched open, the dim light of the corridor seeping in enough for me to see John’s head snap around and his eyes widen in fear - but when the small-framed silhouette of curls appeared he audibly exhaled. We all did; I was positive I hadn’t been the only one on edge over the last few weeks, jumping at every unexpected voice and constantly feeling as though I was utterly transparent even when a situation had nothing to do with our plans.

The silhouette came further into the room and then disappeared as the door was closed once more and our eyes adjusted yet again.

“Sorry I’m late,” a small familiar voice whispered, “zere was _un petit_ commotion and I could not get out unseen.”

“That’s alright, Claudel. We should still have enough time.” I smiled, even though I knew he couldn’t see.

“Fergus,” Jamie said, quiet but firm, “We’ve started calling him Fergus now.” 

“Fergus?” I asked. I looked at her in the dim, grey light, barely able to make out her face as she turned it towards my own. She smiled, the outline of her sharp features obscured by the lack of light were still identifiably _Jamie_. 

“Aye, my Da used to tell me, ‘if a name causes ye grief, ye shouldna have tae bear it - and ye should find another.’” I inched closer to Jamie in the dark as she spoke, curling my free hand into the crook of her elbow. “He always respected my own feelings on _Siobhan_ and, although I still claim it, he kent it caused me grief and that the name I _truly_ claim will always be Jamie.”

I couldn’t help but smile inquisitively at the small boy and at Jamie who had evidently taken a liking to him over the past weeks since Percy had introduced us to him. “So _Fergus_ , huh?” 

“Mhmm,” she hummed, “It has a few meanings I thought may be fitting for the lad. Some say it means ‘strong’ and ‘courageous’, but my favourite and possibly the most fitting is ‘the chosen man’. Aye, that's what he is, after all, Sassenach; the man we chose for the job.”

“I love that,” I grinned, nudging her slightly with my elbow before I turned my attention back to _Fergus_. “And you’re okay with this change, are you?”

“Oh, _oui_ , Madame! Miss Jamie told me what her _Da_ said about names and so I asked her to give me a new one, and she did!” I could hear the pride and awe in his young voice, as though someone had gifted him with something truly magnificent. 

Then his voice fell again almost as quickly as it had risen. “Ze other boys teased me for my name, you see. Zey say it is not a good name for _un garçon._ Zey push me around, call me things I can not repeat to you, Madame. Miss Jamie heard zem, and zat is when I asked her for a new name. I only hope ze boys will leave me alone now.”

In the dim light, which was slowly becoming easier to see in, Fergus’ mop of midnight waves fell forward as his head dipped. His eyes met the floor, but Jamie only allowed the boy one beat to feel sorry for himself before drawing him back to the full height of his recent confidence with the sound of his new name. 

“Oi! Show us yer handiwork, Fergus.” 

Perked up like a puppet on a taut string, the boy’s head popped up once more. “Ah, yes! _Handi_ work indeed, Miss Jamie,” he said in a hushed exclamation, and from the waistband of his hand-me-down pyjama pants came a key.

His sleuthing skills had been put to the test in order to secure the key to Dr. Saint-Germain’s office where we would be able to take back the medical records for Siobhan, John, Percival, and Claudel upon their escape. Their names and the truth of their unethical treatment were filed away, locked behind the door and then behind his desk just as _they_ had been confined to the grounds of the hospital and trapped in their minds by his regimens on the basis of who they happened to love. And when they get released, so shall the truth be set free.

“Ze housekeeper could never see me behind the mountain of her massive arse so it was easy to scoop ze key from her cleaning cart. I only had to find ze right time to test it on the Doctor’s office to be sure.”

It was then that he told us how he had decided to test his own talent, discreetly slipping himself into and out of the office even after he had entered the first time. How he had retrieved a spare key from the desk, and returned the master key to the housekeeper. How he didn’t like the man but felt curious of him, drawn to his belongings. How Dr. Saint-Germain had placed a cold hand on his cervical spine just as Fergus’s cherub soft hand met the door knob to enter. 

“He wasn’t zere, I looked, I swear. No one was zere! But he stopped me and turned me by my neck to face him.” The doctor had only blinked a pair of matching owl eyes at the boy before squinting, letting him loose, and calling to Fergus as he ran away, _prendre la main dans le sac!_

“Perhaps the old chap will join us then.” Percy joked to calm his small friend before I changed the subject to avoid perseverance on anything beyond our control when there were tangible things that would make the plausible, actual.

“I’ve collected a few things for each of you for our departure date. It seemed like the final touch for the new world,” I said as the two large paper grocery bags I reached for crinkled in my grasp.

On a recent night shift excursion I had made my way to the small admissions lockers where the belongings of newly admitted patients were stored, and with them, the belongings of those who never left. The lost but never found. My fingers had traced metal boxes layered with dust and crackled brown with rust. I had been damn sure I’d get any combination of tetanus, hantavirus, or a reincarnation of black plague just from breathing in the filthy untouched room, but hidden inside were the last of the items needed. _Clothes_. 

John, Jamie, and Percy all wore clothing provided by donation which were strictly assessed by the nuns for their ability to project both virtue in the eyes of our Lord and gender expression based on their own blind biblical interpretation. I searched for treasures of my friend’s souls to return to them. Fergus had lived at Danvers his entire life, and had accumulated his own clothes, albeit second-hand, but John and Percy had each arrived at their previous military hospital in uniform before being transferred to Danvers in nothing save the sepia colored hospital gowns I found in their lockers, a makeshift robe to prevent full show of their backsides, and the socks on their feet. For both boys I had to scour the belongings of the dead for clothes that might fit. 

Jamie on the other hand had been ambushed in her college dorm by her uncles, drugged, placed on a plane to Boston, and involuntarily committed. My hands had rested gently on wool, fingertips trailing over a family crest, then clutched defensively at the tartan sweater I had found folded in her locker. It was earth toned with fine lines of yellow and red, creating a plaid that I could only imagine crimson curls flowing over. I had held it to my chest, as though it was _her,_ and then given way to my emotions. _Who had she been before they hurt her?_ Finally holding the woolen sweater at arms length, I had let the trunk unfold and sleeves open to reveal her full wingspan. _This is the comfort she had clung to when she was betrayed._ In addition to the sweater was a pair of trousers that I packed away for her in a paper bag, all the while imagining myself ushering her through a Bostonian town she’d lived in for over a year but had never seen.

I shook myself of the recent memory when I proudly passed the bags forward for them to see what I had scored with my own _handiwork_.

“Okay gentlemen… and lady,” I flirted from behind the mask of my lashes with a quick glance at my girl- _at Jamie. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Beauchamp._ I cleared my throat in an attempt to regain my ill-fated composure. “Let us go over the plans once more.” Becoming meticulous in my planning was a no brainer. We had one chance at an escape for the four and I had one chance at not ruining my entire career by getting caught helping them. There was a symbiosis to this undiscussed partnership that I was still trying to figure out, but somehow I trusted the process and felt content with my part in it. I only needed things to go as smoothly as possible with all human error already accounted for. Everyone needed to be in the same state of mind with a oneness between us that would allow us to prevail together and apart.

“Very well then, it’s our boy and I who lead the pack.” The air of leadership came from Percival’s proud voice as he stood from his seat beside John and pulled a chuffed Fergus into his side. “A diversion in the paediatric ward will be quite easy, with all the commotion the children normally cause, and at the same time an outright act of disobedience such as a midnight elopement is least expected there. They're all too afraid of the dark in this haunted place,” he joked.

“I will wake up and _bother_ ze nurses with a number of complaints requiring your medical services, Dr. Randall.”

“At that time, while our award-winning actor here is inconsolable, I’ll be able to set off the fire alarm within the ward, then slip out unnoticed to trip the fire alarm to the cafeteria as well.” Percy finished.

“Right. Do remember that I’ll need to tell them I’m taking Fergus to the infirmary before the alarm sounds and the nursing staff starts their fire drill... or their full panic at trying to figure out what's going on. Either way, we can’t get locked in paeds _with_ them. And the adult ward?”

“Aye-”

“Yes, erm-”

Jamie and John spoke at the same time; the blood-stained history of their accents and origins juxtaposed their beautifully tragic friendship, calling out to me in harmony.

“After you, _my dear_.” John offered, bowing eccentrically with left hand to his middle, right extended, and grinning ear to ear.

“No. Please, be my guest, _Lord John_.” Jamie joked in return as she offered the most uncoordinated curtsey her long stature and tomboyish ways could muster. 

“Very well,” he grinned at her exaggerated grand gesture, “Jamie and I will each take a separate trip from our rooms at zero hundred hours and at five after, respectively, when the nurses are rounding. Myself to the latrine- eh, the loo- first, then her, to request medication. The paediatric fire alarm will serve to cause confusion in the adult ward, distracting our nurses and leading them to be more interested in making calls to understand the true nature of what’s going on.”

“All this time I’ve been here there was only one incident of fire, when the cook’s apron caught aflame. Luckily, he managed tae take the apron off before he became a kebab himself, but he tossed it ontae the grease in his panic. Nobody kent what tae do when the sprinklers came on.” Jamie chimed in.

I could only imagine how the night shift would manage without actual management on shift to lead. That was the least of my concerns though. They only needed to believe in the false fire long enough to scramble, giving us the time and space to slip out of sight.

“Finally, if we havena met ye at the infirmary by 12:15, make yer way tae the emergency exit for the paediatric gardens wi’out us and we’ll still find our way tae meet ye there or at the grand oak by 12:20,” she said with her chin held high.

The pediatric ward gardens lay on the edge of the Danvers property, and the fence marked the boundary. The branches of the large oak tree which hung over the fence would provide us with our final means of escape. 

“Wait no more than twenty minutes. You’ll go on no matter what,” John concluded, solidifying what I knew Jamie couldn’t speak to me out loud. The entire reason behind this movement was for her freedom and still she’d stay behind if she had to; _bloody fucking Scot!_

Satisfied with their interpretations of my plan, we agreed to make our move in two days time. One by one, they eyed the hall then sank into the shadows for a silent return to their sleeping quarters. All but Jamie. 

She sat on the edge of my desk and motioned me over with the slow curl of two fingers and an outstretched thumb. I could _almost_ feel them elsewhere. Before my feet made the conscious decision to do so, I was gliding in her direction then standing between her legs. Her arms wrapped around my waist as she held me close to her chest, one warm hand slowly petting my arse the way she liked to… the way I liked for her to touch so much of me at once. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, matched the rhythm of her hand-strokes with the playfulness of my fingers in her hair, then sighed as I fully succumbed to the comfort of a moment alone with her.

“Ye’ve made a fine plan for every factor in your reach. Dinna fash what ye cannae control, Claire.” The purring of her R’s that rippled beyond her chest and into mine made me want to meld my pseudo strength into the _actual_ strength she possessed. That she might save the day if I could make us _one_ enough? Her use of my name made it clear that she was serious, and I was overwhelmed with the impulse to cry simply because she believed in me so much. I only had for her what words couldn’t convey, the language we knew best. 

My communication style was that of the mind and body. None of my past partners could relate but Jamie’s means for communicating love matched my own, so we recovered from stress in the same way: requiring reconnection via touch. Perhaps that was why everything seemed so profound with her. I had always been this way, but now that the dialogue was mutual the result was synergistic. 

I entered her warm and waiting mouth with a smile as my hands left her hair and cupped her face. With symmetrical tenderness, my thumbs trailed her rust colored brows over and over as I pulled away from her upper lip and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. She looked to me with the slightest air of confusion when I then placed another light kiss on her right cheekbone, met her gaze at the midline, then leaned over to kiss her left cheek in the same way. Still, she watched as I continued. 

I don’t know what came over me, but the thought of Jamie having to stay whilst the rest of us left this hopeless place behind only made me more desperate to know every expression she might make, every curve her body could take, and any sound she’d let escape if I touched her. I had no idea what I was doing, but I needed to capture her every feature that I could.

With a hand to my chin, she drew me back to her mouth and met my tongue in the small space between us. She tasted of mint, but what I wouldn’t give to taste her whisky-soaked lips while seated at a Boston city bar. _Hadn’t she realized that I was ready for more than our adolescent garden make out sessions?_ Releasing myself, I let my lips graze her smooth sun-kissed jawline before daring for a taste further down. Jamie’s pulse was the only vital sign to deceive her when I placed my mouth above her carotid, swirled a circle with my tongue, then sucked slowly. Until-

“ _Chrrrist_ , Sassenach. What’s gotten intae ye?” 

I was damn near stiff armed. 

“Trust me; I want ye, _Mo Nighean Donn_ , but ken no one here is expecting favors of ye. Especially with this risk ye plan to take for our escape plan. Ye can back out at any time, free of judgement. I’m grateful for ye regardless.” She kept me at arms length by my shoulders, indigo eyes intent on conveying dual meaning without a tone of rejection. 

“I’m part of the plan and there’s no debating me out of it. I know you would do the same for me, Jamie. Now, this… I want this. All of this. Whatever _this_ is.” And with that we took things slowly. Her physique mirrored mine and still somehow I had no idea what to do with it. When she removed her night shirt I followed with my own blouse. When she dropped her pyjama pants, so slid my pencil skirt down my calves. We continued that way, one for one, until we both stood opposite the other, nude, knickers like rose petals at our feet. It was frightening, the unknown, and yet freeing to follow her into it.

In that same flowering way, Jamie touched me. We moved in tandem, a choreography of sorts where she’d reach out to cup my breast, a thumb rounding my budding nipple, and I’d shakingly offered her the same. The comfort of her touch showed me exactly what made _me_ feel good, what I wanted to give _her_ , and what I wanted to make her feel with my very own hands. She took her time with me, but it was when my untouched thighs began to melt into one another with the heat seeping from my center that I reached for her first, hoping she’d sink her fingers into me in return. She didn’t. She froze. For a moment it seemed as if we were both waiting to see how I’d react to my own decision. _Boy, did I surprise myself._

 _Feeling_ Jamie was like every time I’d touched myself and better. The warmth of a woman was all-pervading and inescapable once tapped into. I didn’t _need_ to be touched just yet. Somehow, I was making love to her body and my own at the same time. We made our way down to our knees, facing each other on the carpeted floor with my hand still between her thighs. I watched, unable to close my eyes, as I palmed her. Jamie’s hair dressed my breasts in red, her forehead resting on my shoulder when she realized my satisfaction and finally set her inhibitions free. Muffled moans acted as fuel to my fire and I could feel my own walls throb when she started to clench. I swore I would climax just from her pleasure soaked sounds when her two fingers began working long circles: sliding between my folds, rimming my opening, back up to my clit, and over again. It didn’t take long before I stifled a squeak as I came... then cried with Jamie who groaned in her own bliss and whimpered while she held me in her arms. 

No one had made love to Jamie in a year. No one had _ever_ made love to me.

* * *

I walked Jamie back to her room, said goodnight, and walked away with a secret smile on my face. The thoughts and sensations of what I had done - what _we_ had done - still lingered in my mind and beneath my skin. 

I passed the nurses’ station quietly, but found it abandoned. I rolled back my sleeve to check my watch, wondering how long the meeting and _the meeting_ had taken - but my wrist was bare. I stared blankly at it for a moment, then felt around at my pockets, thinking perhaps I or Jamie had removed it during our… _midnight activities_. 

“Excuse me, Madame, do you have ze time?” a small but distinctive voice piped up from behind me. “No, because I do!”

I turned to see Claudel-- _Fergus_ a few feet away, half hidden in the shadows. He had one hand on his hip and the other raised above his head, dangling from which I could see the glint of silver - my watch. His face burst into a cheeky grin as I gave him a stern look and held out my hand. “What are you still doing out here, young man?” 

He shrugged his shoulders and stuck his hands into the pockets of his hand-me-down pyjama pants. “I wanted to return your watch to you, Madame, but erm… You and Miss Jamie took a little while. But no worry, I remained unseen!”

“Hmm” I hummed, giving him a look as I fastened my watch back in place on my wrist, hoping he couldn’t see my cheeks flushing with the memories of what Jamie and I had done. 

“Come on, Fergus, I’ll walk you back to your ward.”

He walked at my side, the dim light glinting in his head of dark curls that reached just above my elbow. Then, as we approached the double doors that led to the paediatric ward, the head of curls disappeared. I turned around and found that he had stopped walking and was looking down at his feet. He looked up at me again, the look on his face difficult to read. His lips pressed together as though he were trying not to say what he desperately wanted to.

“Fergus? What is it?”

He dropped his shoulders and, after a visible internal struggle, finally let it all out at once. “Please, Milady… I… I want to come with you; please take me with you when you go! I will be good, I promise! Zere is nothing wrong with me, Milady, I swear, and I don’t want to be here forever. I don’t belong here, I was just born here - my mama was a patient before she died, not me - It's not fair! I…” 

He paused to gulp down a breath, but didn’t allow me to interject before he continued in a slightly less flustered manner. “Milady, I do not wish to be left here. I don’t want to say goodbye to you and Miss Jamie and _mon Capitan_ and Percy. I can be useful, I know I can, and I’ll show you if you just give me the chance! Like with the keys, yes? But better. I--”

I placed a hand on his shoulder, “Fergus, look at me.”

I knelt down to his level, my other hand brushed a stray curl from his face. His bright blue eyes flicked up to meet mine. I could see the panic in them, the fear of losing those he had become close to. What we had all taken as a given, apparently young Fergus had not, and I realized that we had never _explicitly_ said that he would be joining us. I had to amend this immediately.

“Oh, Fergus, of _course_ we wouldn’t leave you here!”

* * *

With arrangements officially made for the escape, I no longer had to work doubles on the paediatric ward after my night shifts to gather information. I planned my day on the drive home from work, butterfly wings tickling my diaphragm at the thought of a morning off; the full weight of our completed plans laid to rest in my locker at Danvers. 

_I would greet Frank with a peck in passing as I entered our flat and he left to start his day. I’d kick my heels at my shoe pile beside the front door and worry about their proper placement later. My pencil skirt would slip down my calves one last time before I even made it to the staircase; blouse and brasserie leaving a trail one would expect more from a wanton bachelorette after having wined on a weekend. In the afternoon I’d wake to a quiet home, coffee at three, and a late breakfast for one before preparing to see the gang again that night._

I drove home, intoxicated by delirium and daydreams of a thorough shower followed by an empty bed. For the first time since I’d started my work at the state hospital, I slept as soon as my head reached the pillow. _I slept._

The hopeful dreaminess that carried me to sleep had abandoned me in wakefulness. I awoke cold and alone; having fallen asleep in my towel after showering. The chill and loneliness, I learned, were a visceral feeling not mended by business attire or the warmth of a mug in my palms. It followed me on my evening drive to work as I managed to be delayed by every red light the city could offer. It followed me when the elevator stopped at every floor before my own. 

The feeling only earned its name when I walked onto the ward and passed watchful eyes at the nurses’ station. A sharp left and I was immediately headed past the rec room to find _anyone_ who might give me an answer _._

“Claire!”

_Shit._

John came rushing frantically up the long corridor that led from the dormitories to the rec room and I couldn’t help but meet his seriousness with an involuntary skip in my own step.

“You need to follow me,” he said urgently. “Now.”

“John, what is it? What’s happened?”

“How I wish I could’ve called you,” he said, linking my arm into the crook of his as he somehow managed to _politely_ drag me back in the opposite direction, filling me in, “After dinner, the orderlies came to Jamie’s room without warning. I didn’t know until I heard her fighting next door. I looked in, but I was too late, Claire. They had sedated her and taken her to ECT without explanation. I couldn’t... I would’ve… if I had tried to stop them then and there, they’d have taken me too, and how else could I help her? I followed them and waited for you, Claire, I’m so sorry-”

I had stopped listening at ‘sedated her’ and then I was the one dragging John beyond the nurses station as inconspicuous as the grain-sized amount of refrain left inside of me could manage. 

_Orderlies came. No warning. Sedated. Taken to ECT. No explanation._

We cut around the final corner then ran in tandem down a hall that seemed to extend four more feet for every step taken. The three procedure rooms at the very end of the hall grew smaller as we made our way through a turned-about telescope, never seeming to get close enough. _How long had she been there? Dinner ends at 17:30. My night shifts are scheduled for 1800. I always arrive at 17:30. The bloody fucking delays didn’t allow me to get to the ward until about 1745. Treatment only takes fifteen to twenty minutes. What time was it now?_

“509, Claire! She’s in 509.” John yanked me from my ruminations as we finally reached the rooms. I motioned for him to hide out of the way, with sense enough still to worry for his safety before I took action. My sweat-glazed palms met the chill of metal as I took the handles for procedural room 509’s double doors in my hands and pulled. Each door swung open at my sides bringing with them a gust of sterile air that ruffled my curls; lifting my hair from my shoulders. On the swift breath of a man-made breeze came the deafening sound of an asystolic heart. 

My own heart’s blood would’ve sunk to my feet like an anchor had I not seen her face first. Hailing from the highlands, she enjoyed the outdoors. Siobhan Alexandra Margaret Mackenzie Fraser had hair of fire and a face freckled with flickering embers; Jamie was ginger but _never_ pale. The young woman on the procedural table, however, lay with lips of cyan.

And that’s when I found myself on her chest. With my skirt hiked up to my thighs and not a damn care for modesty, I straddled her long torso. Placing my hand-wrapped fist above her breastbone, I extended my elbows, and forced the full weight of my desperation into filling her with life again.

“Breathe, damn you!” I cried in a scream that _couldn’t_ have been my own as exhaustion threatened to overcome adrenaline. Finally, I placed my lips, dripping with sweat and tears, on hers. I needed to try anything and everything. 

So, my lungs breathed for her. 

And my heart beat for her. 

And breathed for her. 

And beat for her. 

And breathed for her. 

And beat for her.

Until—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Prendre la main dans le sac!" - (Fr) idiom equivalent to being caught with your hand in the cookie jar  
> "un garçon" - (Fr) A boy
> 
> ~WE ARE SORRY!~
> 
> We'd like to thank you all for your patience and kindness over the last couple of months - This chapter has been extremely delayed, but for good reasons :) Your patience with us is greatly appreciated, and if you showed up to read this long-awaited chapter you are amazing and we love you! ❤
> 
> Once more, our biggest thanks goes out to our Betas - you are both so incredibly good to us and we love you lots! Thank you for bearing with us and for taking time out of your stressful, busy lives to still help us out! ❤


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